


Rogue Trip

by Yasminke



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-12
Updated: 2006-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yasminke/pseuds/Yasminke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We need you for two more tasks..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He put the silver Honda SUV into second gear as he approached the western-most outskirts of St. Louis. The sky to the northeast was darkening, early for mid-August, but the heavy, charcoal black clouds weren’t from thunderstorms, but rather the blazes of destruction he’d seen dotting North America. Ahead of him, smaller clouds of pale smoke rose from the buildings scattered in the large, overcrowded refugee camp. It wasn’t the first he had seen on his trip — wouldn’t be the last, he knew — but it was this particular camp that marked his moment of truth. He could turn back, without beginning a task he had been reluctant to accept or he could continue and risk failing a mission upon which the future of the world relied.

Not that he hadn’t heard that line before: there was always an apocalypse looming; a prophecy taunting; the future relying.

With no radio signals in the vicinity, he selected Mozart  and let his newly “liberated” iPod choose the soundtrack. 

“How apropos,” he muttered bitterly as _Requiem_ filled the car.

Traffic, such as it was, slowed to a slug’s pace. Glancing at the car’s clock, he noticed the red circles on the map lying on the passenger’s seat. St. Louis was the first. He had realized from the onset that once he crossed the Mississippi, he would press on despite the gnawing threat of failure that dodged him his entire life.

“Hell,” he thought aloud as he lifted his foot from the brake and allowed the car to roll forward, “I’ve even failed at dying. Won’t father be proud?”

 “I…missed…you,” he had told her even though using what air he could bring into his lungs had caused him a pain that radiated from the depths of his gut and threatened to tear his heart out.

He had had her, she had held him, and then she’d faded from view, replaced by a grey that shrouded him and then turned black.

Terribly clichéd as it was, he’d expected to float above his body for a while, to follow a white light, to find her waiting at the other end.

Instead, he’d found himself alone in a waiting room.

Doing just that and only that … waiting … in a dark, windowless room.

Biological rhythm loses its meter when there is no sun or moon to set the tempo. And without those reminders, time loses all meaning.

The car crawled forward as another traveler had been granted permission to cross into the camp while another turned around.

How long Wesley had remained in that darkness, he had no idea. He had known it would do no good to become impatient, to demand progress. He had thought that perhaps it was his ultimate test. And so, he’d waited.

“View sucks in here,” a voice from the shadows had surrounded him.

He remembered turning in a slow, wide circle to discern the point of origin, only to be greeted by a familiar, bright, Cheshire smile that comforted him like his mother’s hug.

Not that he would ever compare the bearer to his mother.

“Sorry I’m late,” Cordelia had said, still smiling. “You’d think that being a Higher Power would give you benefits, but you’d think wrong. Meetings,” she walked toward him, reaching out, “can you believe I have to attend meetings?”

“Cordy,” was all he could think of as her hand cupped his cheek.

“I missed you.” Her voice had been hushed, heavy with a sadness he still didn’t understand. “You look good for a dead guy.”

“And you, for a Higher Power.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. _Junior_ Higher Power, as they keep reminding me.”

“Still—” The emphasis and its underlying irritation had brought a smile to his face. “Blinding white suits you.” And it did, bringing out the warm, chocolate brown of her eyes.

“True. I can carry it off because of my skin tone,” she had answered in truest, traditional Cordelia form.

All the waiting, the practiced patience had begun to take its toll and he felt like a tightly wound spring. “It’s great to see you, but why are we here, talking? I want to be … elsewhere.“

“About that.” She had been facing him but then turned to a window, which had appeared to her left. “You can’t. Not yet.”

“Why ever not? I’m dead. Send me to hell if you must, but—”

“We need you for two more tasks …”

Wesley moved the car forward, pushing the button as he came to a stop. The smell of panicked humanity threatened to overpower him as he leaned toward the guard.

“Plates are from California,” the security guard announced as he scanned the interior of the automobile. “Can’t let you in.”

He guessed the man to be in his mid-forties, had probably had his eyes set on a fishing or camping trip to end the summer, but ended up working, fending off survivors of a country-wide apocalypse. Probably had two or three children, one of whom might be a teenager.

Wesley let his eyes scan the horizon, casually, as if he had a choice. “Fine. Are you native to St. Louis?”

“Might be.”

Wesley picked up the map and folded it so that middle America was facing them. He pointed to the circle around St. Louis, showing it to the guard. “I need to get across the river. My … I have to get to my cousin. She’s only sixteen and no one’s heard from her in a while. We think she’s alone out there.” He paused a beat. “In Ohio.”

The guard took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair while he looked around.  “Man, you’re gonna have to find a different route. Not through the city. Not allowed with outta state plates.”

Wesley grabbed a pen and handed it to him. “Alternate route then, if you can suggest one. It really is an urgent matter.” He glanced at the man’s hesitant frown. “Who knows what’s happening there since communications went down. A sixteen year old girl, alone…”

The guard took another glance at the food, water and boxes in the back of the SUV. “How long you plannin’ on stayin’ in Missouri?”

“Just long enough to sleep and go on. I originally intended to go straight through but once the adrenaline let down—“

“Fine. One night,” the guard relented, scribbling something on a slip of paper which he tore and handed to Wesley. “Register in that building to the left. If I were you, man,” he said, jerking his head toward the back of the car, “I’d keep the stuff in the back outta sight.”

“Plan on it,” Wesley replied and moved forward the second the boom arm was raised.

 

~*~

 

_“We need you for two more tasks.”_

_“No, Cordelia. I’ve done my time. Everything the Powers asked of me, and more. Give me my due.”_

_“You’re my champion: the only one who can be trusted with these.”_

_“Pardon the expression, but bollocks. Whatever it is, the answer remains no. Find someone else.”_

_“There is no one else I can ask.”_

_Her soft smile hid something, he knew. Just like the headaches, she was keeping something from him. Yet, her smile illuminated the room in waves: soft glows banished the darkness for brief moments at a time._

_“Everything you need to get started will be made available to you.”_

_“Everything?” The bark of laughter escaped before he could stop it. “I sincerely doubt it, Cordy. Fred?”_

_“Not what you want, Wes. What you need. You’ll need to do some digging. But you’ll find what you need.”_

_Once again, a soft white washed the room, but this time when Cordelia opened her mouth the sound of an air raid siren pierced the air._

Wesley smacked the side of his head on the car frame when he started awake. Rubbing his temple to ease the pain, he realized that no matter how luxurious a car might be, the leg room was always a tad short for a person of his height. Even this top of the line model, which he’d miraculously discovered unscathed in the remains of Wolfram & Hart’s garage, managed to cramp his legs.

The sirens had stopped, but lights continued to sweep the grey surrounding the perimeter of the camp. Undaunted, perhaps even slightly exhilarated by the possibility of a demonic attack, he decided to relieve his full bladder and work out the stiffness. 

Later, when he strolled back to the registration office, night was beginning to capitulate to a blood-red dawn. He lifted the receiver on the outdoor telephone but replaced it gingerly when all he heard was dead air. To the right of the phone, just beside the doors hung a public notice listing “Joanna Whitney” as community liaison. It also showed — after a furtive glance at his watch — that she wasn’t due to start for another forty-five minutes.

“If you want what passes for coffee and breakfast,” began an older man as he brushed past Wesley and pushed the door open, “then you best go on over to the canteen area now.”

He turned and held the door ajar, allowing Wesley an unobstructed view of the handgun hanging from a handcrafted leather belt. Moving a toothpick to the other side of his mouth, the man’s stormy grey eyes, worn but alert, looked Wesley over from head to toe then shot back to his face.

“You wait ‘til people start milling about and it goes from mud to raw sewage. Ain’t got no fancy Starbucks.” He then pursed his face and tched. “Then again, maybe it’s recycled Starbucks. Stuff always was shit. You comin’ in or what?”

“Ah, yes, thank you” Wesley answered, deferentially following him into the building. 

“Sam told me about you,” the man announced, unaware that his statement had caused Wesley to halt in his tracks. “Says you got a cousin … or something … in Ohio.” The man turned and put his hand on his hip, once again pushing his jacket aside and displaying his handgun. An eyebrow arched in suspicion.

“Yes,” Wesley replied, meeting the other’s gaze. “I plan on leaving shortly. The woman yesterday evening—“

“Margaret.”

“Yes, Margaret. She suggested I come in this morning and inquire about using the camp’s phone. However—“

“Oh, she didn’t mean that one. It don’t work. None of ‘em do. Only satellite phones, and then only if the weather’s co-operatin’. Those ones out there are just for comfort and nostalgia. If Margaret suggested it, then she’d’ve left a note. Joanna’ll hook you up when she comes in at six.” He paused and dropped his hand to his side. “How’s it you got family in Ohio? With that accent? And California plates?”

“An unfortunate affair, if you were to ask my father.”

“Not fond of Americans?” The eyebrow arched again.

“Not particularly fond of anyone, actually.”

“One of them. And now we know why you moved to Cali-forn-ay-yay.” The older man nodded. “I’m Bob.”

“Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.”

“Don’t say? Damn near a mouthful, ain’t it? You come, sit down in what we like to call ‘the main office’. Won’t be long.”

Wesley followed Bob around the counter and walked toward the rear of the building through a door marked “Staff Only — Trespassers Will Be Shot”. Locked cases filled with rifles lined the far wall: hints of troubles past or portended. On the left wall hung a wind-frayed US flag, with the Missouri state flag just below. A large map of Greater St. Louis decorated the right wall, push pins and flags dotting the paper. He sat at a table, picked up an outdated _Field and Stream_ magazine and flipped idly through the pages.

“Joanna never was punctual until all Hell broke loose,” Bob called from the kitchenette. “Now she’s always right on the nose. Your cousin lives in what part of Ohio?”

“Columbus.”

Bob tsked and sighed. “At least it ain’t Cleveland. Nothing left there, so I hear. Terrible business. Wife’s family lived in Euclid. All of ‘em gone now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Bob joined him at the table. “Yep. I got real Maxwell House brewing. Should be ready before long.” He gestured at the magazine. “Trout are really biting. The rivers get overcrowded ‘cause no one wants to go fishing any more.”

“Priorities change at a time like this,” Wesley replied.

“Son, there’s never been ‘a time like this’.” His eyebrow arched as the front door creaked open and footsteps fell across the linoleum floor. “Jo’s here. Go make your call. I’ll see if I can find some food, not that pig slop, for when you’re done.”

Wesley swiveled in the chair just in time to see a petite redhead disappear. With a nod to Bob, he rose and went to the “Liaison” office behind the reception counter.  Through the frosted glass, he could see a distinctly feminine figure quickly look at a piece of paper then replace the paper with a coffee mug.

“Come in,” she said after he rapped softly on the glaze. She turned as he opened the door, and put the mug on the desk next to a stack of manila folders.

“Good morning,” Wesley offered.

“Is it?” she quipped. “I can’t tell until my third cup of coffee. You that fancy guy Margaret and Sam yapped to me about over dinner? I gotta tell ya, she’s crushing heavily, Margaret is. Sam may be as well. Something about your trunk?” She leaned to the side and glanced at Wesley’s rear, then shrugged.

Sam’s “fancy guy” blinked, rapidly like Hugh Grant, Joanna thought, before composing himself.

“I suppose I would be. I rather doubt ‘fancy’—“

“Bob,” she interrupted, jerking a thumb toward the door, “checked out your creds when Margaret passed them on. He used to be a sheriff down in Festus. Got a hell of a sixth sense about people. **You** ,” the emphasis was duly noted by Wesley, “used to be a CRO for that LA law firm, Wolfram & Hart. Bob says ‘big and fancy’. What the hell does a CRO do anyway?”

“Uh, research,” he stammered. She rolled her eyes. “Generally archival work, sometimes in the field.” He glanced at the boarded-up window. “Now, unfortunately, always in the field.”

“Huh. Well, phone’s over there on the corner desk. Should work fine; weather’s bearable. You need much privacy?”

“That would be best, but not necessary if you can’t —“

“Good, because then I’d have to say ‘tough fucking shit’ to a Hugh Grant look alike who works, worked, whatever for a big, fancy law firm.”

With that, she plopped unceremoniously into the chair and began to maneuver through the pile of folders, marking items on her calendar and in a purple, floral notebook. Wesley went to the desk and began dialing numbers. He knew the LA ones would go unanswered, just as they had when he was foraging for supplies through the remains of his apartment, the Hyperion and Wolfram & Hart. Nevertheless, he felt obliged to try again, so that when the time came, he’d be able to honestly say, “I tried to call but there was no answer.”

He looked up at the ceiling, waiting for a snarky rejoinder, but saw only peeling plaster.

He managed a facsimile of success when it came to his family’s residences: two ansaphones and one busy signal. As he began to dial the number on the business card Andrew had given everyone, Joanna left the office.

“Good morning. How may I direct your call,” he heard, through a crackling of static.

 “Good morning. I’d like to speak with either Rupert Giles or Buffy Summers, please.”

“Whom shall I say is on the line?”

“Wesley. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.  I need—“

Wesley sat and stared at the handset as the resounding click reverberated in his head.

“No luck?” Bob asked from the now open doorway.

“They answered, but hung up.”

“Lots of people,” he said, “lost contact with the first wave. And then the second and the third. When people thought dead started emerging from the rubble, it freaked everybody out. Loved ones started calling, but—“

“Some weren’t quite the same.”

He eyed Wesley through narrowed lids. “Exactly. Plus, there’re a load of people who are the same: running scams, stealing identities. You get the idea.”

“Unfortunately. What do you mean ‘second and third wave’?”

“What? You been in your own little world for the past year or so?”

Wesley shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”

“It started in May of 2004. Mostly in California. But it spread to Canada, Mexico, Nevada. So, everybody thought ‘terrorists’, as the governments wanted us to, except later that year the second wave came and there were no terrorists left. Or Disneylands or Galveston or Lake Geneva, so I hear. There were attacks all over, like these things crawled out of their hellholes and rampaged. It got quiet and then bang, third wave. That’s what we’re in now.”

“I see,” Wesley said and glanced back at the telephone. “I think I’ll just wait until I’m in Columbus. Wait for good news.”

“Might be a good idea, if you can get reception. Come eat something. You can’t get into the city, but I’ll give you directions ‘round it so you don’t waste time.”

Bob waited for Wesley to leave the office, pulling the door closed behind him. “And when you find that cousin of yours, you gonna take her to whatever’s left of LA?”

“No, Idaho.”

“Idaho, I’ll be damned. Well, from what I hear, you can’t go north. Wasteland. So, you two make your way back here, and we’ll fix you up with some proper food. Not this camp crap. Gives me gas.”

Wesley smiled. “That would be very kind of you.”

Bob arched an eyebrow and said, “You know, you remind me of some people who passed through here a ways back. Motley bunch. The two guys acted like they were married. All you need is a flowing, leather coat. Crazy punk ass kids.”

 

~*~

 

_Cordelia waved her hand, opening a window that did not exist. “Destroying the Circle of the Black Thorn opened the way for an apocalypse. Or three. Everything we knew is nothing now. Life is no longer a struggle to get to the next paycheck; it’s a battle to see the next sunrise. Even the fittest are finding it hard to survive." She closed her eyes as he came to her side. "What some have to do to get by, even kids, Wes, it hurts to watch."_

_"Then do something."_

_“Paramount used to be just about there,” she continued, pointing to a flattened rubble off to her right. “Disneyland? No go zone, even for vampires and zombies. That blaze over there? Vegas. Lake Tahoe? Forget it. Toxic.”_

_Wesley turned his back to her and what remained of his world._

_“And it’s like that all the way to Canada and across most of the US.”_

_“Europe?” he asked quietly. He wanted to ask, "England? Oxfordshire?" but kept silent._

_“Well, no Cannes this year, but England and Ireland are still hanging by a thread.” She paused then continued after a sigh. “Wes, down there, in the middle of that apocalypse are two girls, Slayers, who need you to find them, train them and take—”_

_"This penance because I did such an disgraceful job with Buffy and Faith."_

_Cordelia wrapped her arm around him and hugged. "It's a reward because you did such a stellar job with me."_

 

Bob had given excellent, if overly detailed, instructions around the metropolitan area. It was necessary, he said, because he'd heard that the third wave had started somewhere around the Wabash River and radiated outward, stopping unexpectedly at the Mississippi.

It had been easy, relatively carefree driving through until Shoveltown, where a stalled car had to be moved off the highway before anyone could travel further. The Clark Bridge was a letdown compared to what the St. Louis Arch would have been, but crossing into Illinois gave Wesley a renewed sense of determination that counteracted the drain in time and energy the circumvention had cost.

At a truck stop outside Effingham, Indiana, Wesley heard that the local epicenter had burst out of Terre Haute one spring afternoon. The city no longer existed. According to a trucker from Gary, rampaging hordes had fanned out north to the Great Lakes and east into Ohio, flattening towns, farms and anything else in its demonic wake, like no tornado had ever done. Murmurs of agreement ran the length of the counter. Witnesses testified to the bizarre creatures that still roamed the northern half of the Northwest Territory, looking for prey, culling the survivors.

The borders in the east overlapped with the annihilation of the second wave, which had erupted in Cleveland. Things had attacked from the air and below ground, simultaneously, twenty-four/seven for two months. Recalling his history lessons, Wesley mentally mapped that apocalypse's path through what had once been the New England, Middle and Chesapeake colonies, southward, deep into — Wesley remembered this not from lectures, but from moments stolen with forbidden books — the traditional lands of the Iroquois Longhouse.

The group sitting in the truck stop, nodding at the horror stories, offered to escort Wesley to Grayville, where he'd pick up I-64 to Louisville. Plenty of traffic in Kentucky, they advised, where refugees were convoying south to official, government "havens". Until the border, the ragtag group of truckers and their families, gypsies of the apocalypse, would provide a barrier against not only demons but the gangs who roamed the interstates, searching for easy marks.

"Besides," piped up six-year-old Henry once of Evansville, "Daddy'll honk the horn so's ya don't fall asleep."

After eight hours — two of which were filled with horn blasts — and three large, oily coffees purchased outside Grayville, Carrollton and Xenia — two of which coincided with pit stops as a result of the previous coffees —  Wesley buzzed toward Columbus. After concentrating on the road ahead, purposely avoiding the scenes of packs of feral dogs foraging through the remnants of once vibrant towns, the Scioto River flowing serenely beneath the city's skyline was a welcome sight. In the early hours of dusk, lights flickered in two of the skyscrapers — the Rhodes and Leveque Towers, his map informed him — as they would at the end of any normal working day.

No traffic, no traffic lights stopped him as he followed Cordelia's instructions into the heart of the city. Representatives of the Council had, purportedly, scoured the area where the girl had lived, but Cordelia's information, gleaned from the more recently departed, pointed him elsewhere.

_"North to some place called Upper Arlington. Seen at the mall. Man, I miss malls."_

_"There's an apocalypse going on and she goes shopping?"_

_"What? A woman has needs, Wesley." Cordelia batted her eyelids. "Besides, I didn't say she was shopping, did I?"_

 He entered the city and slowed down to thirty as he turned off the interstate. The boarded up and forsaken buildings along the way mirrored the powerlessness and abandonment residents must have felt as the hordes swooped relentlessly down.

Under the dead sign advertising parking at the City Center, he was stopped by a Sergeant manning a military blockade and pressed to show identification and file a statement as to his reason for entering the city. After the paperwork was finished and duly filed on his clipboard, the Sergeant handed Wesley a mimeographed information sheet, detailing working emergency facilities and the hours for sunrise and sunset over the next fourteen days. It was suggested, rather undemocratically, that he not to stop at any gas station or convenience store without armed protection.

"No guard, no gas," the Sergeant said and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Wesley continued along High Street, driving under arches that proclaimed he had entered the "Short North". The remorseless collapse of what looked to have been an up-market neighborhood began to weigh heavily on his already exhausted and frayed nerves. He could picture people milling about on the street, looking in shop fronts, standing under the rainbow flags. Faces smiling, couples loving, demons enjoying a take-away latté.

Wesley slammed the car to a halt and reversed it until he reached a café next to a service alley. Stopping the car, he grabbed the crossbow from under his seat, ran down the alley and yelled.

"Stop right there, Wilson!"

A demon in faded jeans and a Michigan T-shirt halted in his tracks and slowly turned around, arms raised in the air. Upon seeing Wesley with the crossbow aimed at his mid-section, where both his hearts beat at twice their normal speed, his skin went ashen, the four horns on his forehead grayed.

"Mr. Wyndham-Pryce. I heard you were dead."

"You're an empath demon, figure it out."

"Right … gotcha … sir." Wilson's eyes screwed as he concentrated despite his nerves. "It was the alma mater T-shirt, wasn't it?"

"Where is she? The Slayer." Wesley approached the demon.

Wilson swallowed with difficulty and tugged on the collar of his shirt. "I, I, okay. Right. I heard, just heard mind you, that she's holed up near OSU."

Wesley jabbed the point of the arrow into Wilson, below his fourth rib. "Heard?"

"Okay, she's in a, oh, what'd you call it, a community. A bunch of survivors got together and set up this area. The one she's in is filled with who—, er, women."

Wesley cocked his head and arched an eyebrow.

"Behind Doctor's Hospital. On Highland. But you can't get in that way. "

Wesley pushed the crossbow just a fraction.

"Fine! Up High, down, um, no, can't think when you're poking me!" He relaxed when Wesley leaned back. "Right. Down West Fifth would be easiest, then you gotta go left on Hunter to the parking lot. That's Riga and you get in through there."

Wesley nodded once. "You've been an invaluable employee."

"Uh, you're welcome?" Wilson sighed as Wesley stepped another two paces back. "Look, about Wolfram & Hart. If they find me—"

"They won't," Wesley said.

"Right. Okay, then. I'll just be mov—"

Wesley turned from the corpse in the alley and headed back to his car. Disregarding the posted speed limits, more mindful of the quickly setting sun, he followed Wilson's directions, ending up on Riga Alley in less than ten minutes, blocked streets and abandoned vehicles notwithstanding.

He parked the car and fastened a retractable crossbow, wooden arrow already loaded, to his wrist. An eye on the sunset, he pulled out a leather coat from the backseat, put a handgun in the pocket. He knew there were stakes in the other pocket.

It was deceptively easy to enter yards of the houses backing onto the parking lot. He crossed through one yard, but noticed how residents were concentrating on getting inside and locking their large, extraordinary houses. A few people cast furtive glances his way, but no one stopped to question him.

Slowly he walked along Highland Street, peering into the windows as curtains and blinds closed. One house, an impressive brick and wood building with a wraparound porch and a turret, the green and ivory trim recently painted, kept their windows open. The porch and yard were littered with toys, bicycles and lawn chairs. On the second story, a young woman placed two church candles, one of them red, in the large arched window, met his stare and walked calmly away. Other candles appeared in windows on the third floor and in the turret but no one looked out.

On the ground floor, however, a woman with short, sun-streaked hair approached the window on the porch and stood at attention. A young girl, black hair cascading over her face, said something to her and was sent away. Still, the blonde stood rigidly at her post. It was difficult to judge her age from the street, but it would be just his luck to be stuck with another angry, rebellious teenager.

Wesley looked heavenward, sighed and walked up the steps. He knocked authoritatively on the dark green door, with its decorative lead light insets and waited. He heard the footsteps, figured someone was looking through the peephole, then heard the locks clang and slide. The door opened and Wesley was greeted by the barrel of an M1 rifle.

"What do you want?" the blonde asked.

"I'm looking for a young woman, named Cherry. I heard she might be here."

"Yeah? Who told you that bullshit?" Her aim, Wesley noted, remained steady, never wavered.

"A colleague. I'd like to find this girl." Wesley tried to peek around the rifle, but the barrel followed his eyes. "I'm on a m—, a deadline."

"Tough shit, maggot."

"This girl is," he waited a beat, "special. She developed an amazing —"

He stopped short as a soft hum electrified the air. Excited chatter filled the house behind the sentry. The rifle lowered as the blonde grabbed Wesley by the shirt.

"Juice! Go! We got maybe four hours! Go, go!" she shouted while she yanked Wesley across the threshold.

 

~*~

 

_“Things won’t be what you expect. People won’t be what you expect.” Cordelia turned to him and granted that beguiling smile. “This is going to be so much fun.”_

_Wesley narrowed his eyes. “I’m so very glad to be a source of amusement.”_

_“No, I didn’t mean it that way.” She shrugged her shoulders and had the poise to appear contrite. “Okay, I did, but only a teeny bit. You always did take things so seriously.”_

_“It’s a ‘Mad Max’ world, Cordelia.”_

_“See now, Mel Gibson is funny.” She tilted her head to the side. “You’ll find allies when you are most alone and tranquility when things are most chaotic.”_

 Wesley was wrenched indoors and half-tossed onto the foyer’s carpet. His captor turned around, never letting go of his shirt while he stumbled ungraciously, then kicked the door closed. Lights pulsated as the electricity struggled to stay on.

“On your knees, scumbag,” the blonde said, after she was sure he was steady and his back was to the stairs. She kept her voice as menacing as the rifle still in her hand. “On your knees, hands behind your head, fingers interlaced.”

Wesley slowly sunk to the ground, grateful the hallway runner was an authentic Persian. Death and resurrection had been hard on his knees. “Really, this isn’t neces—”

“Do not tell me what’s necessary. As a matter of fact, do not speak until spoken to.”

She watched while he slowly raised his arms and put his hands behind his head. At that point, she scanned the frantic scene while the lights’ glare remained steady. Female voices of all ages screamed questions and answers between the three floors. Two or three children argued about television shows and toys. And the blonde in front of him continued to bark orders.

“Roster, maggots, roster! Amy, front room first, so I can put funny accent boy out of the way.” Wesley saw a petite teenager, curly hair pulled into four ponytails, drag a vacuum into the front parlor. “‘Tricity’s stable! Suzie, plug the computer in. Rose, see if Paul’s on the ham. Whoever has freezer duty, do it fast. Count on three to recharge. Kids, Parkers’!”

She monitored the hustle with a smug grin of satisfaction, then leaned into Wesley’s face. “Why were you doing recon on our patch?”

“As I told you—”

“I know what you told me, ass wipe, I wanna know why my patch. Why are you looking for this Cherry here? And be straight with me or you loose a nut.”

“Jane,” said a soft voice behind Wesley, “sorry to interrupt the foreplay, but you’re rostered on CB.”

She glanced up briefly. “Shit. You’re on patrol, right?”

“Yeah. Vaun’ll take the CB. Isn’t Ricardo due back in Damnation Alley? She needs to talk to him.”

“Yep. Run up and tell her. Su Min?” Wesley saw a young, Asian woman enter his peripheral vision. “Take the kids to Carla’s then go tell Dick and Sue about our uninvited guest.”

The woman nodded and beckoned to someone behind Wesley. Immediately, five children, ages between three and ten, joined her, all gawking at the man whose arms were beginning to cramp. In their own arms, they carried Barbies, stuffed animals, a Monopoly box and DVDs. A tall brunette, dressed in baggy jeans and an oversized Nike shirt, joined them, a semi-automatic slung over her shoulder.

“Three hour patrol, then come back. We gotta have a meeting because of this jerk here,” Jane said.

The woman nodded and left with an African-American girl, dressed in cut-off jeans, a midriff top and possessing the longest legs Wesley had seen since the last Victoria Secret fashion show.

The children continued to gawk, even after the door had slammed. Jane arched an eyebrow at the eldest child boy, and smiled. Her smile so dramatically changed her features Wesley found it hard to believe she had the heart to use a rifle.

“David, if I don’t get my X-Men DVD back, if I am denied looking at Wolverine for a second, you’ll mow the lawn for a month. Got it, muchacho?”

“Sí, Juanita,” he replied, grinning widely and Jane waved them on.

“Hey!” she screamed when the vacuum in the front room stopped. “How come I don’t hear music? People, share the load! Who’s got soundtrack duty?”

“Becky!” came the reply as someone ran down the stairs, their footfalls the equivalent of an elephant’s.

The color drained from Jane’s face.  She turned to Wesley and jerked her head toward the front parlor. “On the loveseat. You can put your arms down. You’re in for a different type of torture, but make a false move and I’ll kill you.”

Wesley rose slowly, knees popping. As he inched to the red and gold love seat, Kylie Minogue invited him into her world. He sat down and rolled his shoulders, then leaned back to stare at the ornate ceiling.

 

_“You need to learn how to relax. Meditate. Find your inner peace.” Cordelia’s face brightened. “I had some affirmation tapes in my apartment! You should try it.”_

“I don’t want to be the one the battles always choose…”

Wesley awoke to the abrupt silence followed by a muffled bang of pottery on wood. Fighting to calm his heart and keep alert, he glanced at the cherry table in front of him with a green mug sitting on a bamboo coaster. He then looked up at the group of nine women, all in their late teens, early twenties. All staring at him expectantly. All bearing arms.

“Coffee,” Jane said. “Drink it.”

Wesley struggled to keep his eyes open, wiping his hand down his face while stifling an unbidden yawn. As he lifted the mug to his mouth, Jane began the interrogation.

“The car with California plates’s yours? The one with the extreme arsenal and funky, antique books in the trunk?”

He nodded, swallowing the best coffee he’d had in weeks.

“See these women here? They trusted me and Monica to keep them and the kids safe from the bastards that killed, mauled, ate and, or slurped up their loved ones. We are a part of a team that has kept this block and the people who joined us alive. You get that?”

“Yes. Absolu—”

“Do we need to keep people safe from you?”

“I assure you, you are all perfectly safe from me,” Wesley replied, glancing at the array of swords and guns and mentally added, “I wish I could say the same for myself.”

“Why’re you after Cherry?”

Wesley’s eyes widened. “One of you is she?” Stony silence answered him. Cordelia had told him next to nothing about the girls, but what he did know would sway their leader.

“Cherry is a special woman, one of a select group called ‘Slayers’. Shortly after her sixteenth birthday, she developed a marked increase in stamina, strength and agility. She now has the ability to heal faster than a normal mortal. She can sense the proximity of demons, in particular vampires. In order to best use these abilities—”

“Use?” Jane demanded. “You aren’t using anyone, worm.”

“No, no, see here.” Wesley shook his head and rethought his strategy. He paused and looked at each of the girls. “It’s her destiny to help us restore the balance of the fight. I know you realize what we’re up against. You’ve all seen them, survived them. We do have the power to stop this apocalypse. But only with Cherry’s help.”

“She’s special, yadda, yadda. Who sent you?”

“A friend. I need to get her to the Watcher’s Council.”

“What’s that? A group of pervs?”

Wesley chuckled as he pictured the righteous indignation of his mentors. “While some of them are undoubtedly as you describe, it is the Council who trains Slayers. It’s presently headed by a Slayer named Buffy and her Watcher.”

“Prove it.”

“I was asleep, how long? Two hours? You will have gone through my personal belongings already. You know who I am and what I do. You mentioned the books. There’s your proof.”

Jane leaned back in the chair. “Good thinking. We ate the candy bars. So, here’s how it’ll go. You stay here one week. In that week, if you figure out which girl is Cherry, and she agrees to go with you, she’s yours.”

“A week. I’ve a —”

“Deadline, yeah. But this is our decision, it’s agreed, well, except Monica, but when she gets off duty, she’ll vote.” She rose and held out her hand. “Deal?”

Wesley took her hand. “Deal, Jane.”

She smiled and again, her features changed. “Oh, my name isn’t ‘Jane’. Just like ‘Cherry’ isn’t real, it’s just what they call me. ‘GI Jane’.” —


	2. Chapter 2

In the space of six days, his life had become a nightmare.  He needed a haven, a place where no one would look for him, where no feminine voice could shatter his thoughts. He slowed down once he passed the ruins of the Battelle Institute, and keeping the two towers of Ohio State to his right, he continued down the deserted King Avenue until he got to the banks of the Olentangy River. There he found a patch of grass and collapsed.

Six days without hot water. Six days with an immature, doe-eyed Becky following his every move. His second day at the house, she'd wandered into the upper level bathroom just as Wesley emerged from his icy shower, fumbling for a towel. Instead of shock and embarrassment, squeals of hysterical laughter from the older girls crowned her reigning estrogen queen and resident stalker.

Six days in a house filled with women, only three of whom he could definitely cross off his list. Monica was Jane's opposite in many ways, in some ways her mirror. Jane was blonde, solidly built; Monica was willowy with wild, gypsy-like features. Where Jane was demanding and curt, Monica was soft-spoken and persuasive. Jane was a registered ER nurse; Monica had been an intern at Doctor's Hospital when the apocalypse made her a surgeon. And both were ferocious lionesses when it came to their motley pride. Su Min, also a nurse, had moved in when she discovered one night that Clintonville and the families living in it no longer existed. A charming woman of indeterminate age, Su Min made it clear with a jar of Vlasic kosher dills that she was definitely not the Slayer.

Which left him with seven girls, a sense of wonderment that Giles survived months with a group of Slayers and Andrew, and a prayer that Becky wasn't Cherry.

He had one day to have a revelation. If he could just think things through … He needed space, peace and quiet, not a ladder to change light bulbs, clear rain spouts or fix shingles. He closed his eyes and made a mental list of each girl's qualities. Keziah was reclusive and moody …

 

 _Cordelia sat down beside him and stretched out her legs_. _"Feels so good to sit and relax. So much work. They make me file reports. In triplicate. Bet you never had to do that at Wolfram & Hart."_

_He grinned, folding his hands under his head. "Of course not. I had someone else do it. Is that why I rate a personal visit?  Usually you're just a dream."_

_She beamed. "You dream about me? With all those young, nubile women around? I am so flattered." He groaned and rolled his eyes behind closed lids. "You'll wake up soon enough, Wes. Before you do, figure out who Cherry is. Laura needs you."_

_"Hmm, Laura. Give me a hint."_

_"Cherry's had a rough life. Makes Faith's look like Buffy's."_

_"Most of them have, including Becky and if she's a Slayer, I'm a dead man. Why did you tell me no one else was alive?"_

_"I said there was no one else I could ask. Not that they were dead. Although, Gunn did die in the alley behind Caritas."_

_Wesley sighed. "Is he—?"_

_Cordelia lay down and rested her head on his chest. "He's happy, yes. A hero's afterlife. Which you'll have, too."_

_"I want Fred, Cordy. I miss her so much."_

_"I know,"" she said, tapping his foot. "But for now, wake up."_

 

"Wake up!"

His foot was kicked harder. Slowly he opened his eyes and shielded them from the sun. "Mother of God."

Jane crossed her arms over her chest. "Do I look like a virgin to you? Men always start with insults just as they're proving useful."

"Don't tell me how you found me, just tell me you're alone."

"I ditched her, but it wasn't easy. We're scheduled for a white out in about two hours. Su Min thought maybe you could radio your Pervert Council." She held out a hand.

"Figure it out yet?" she asked as she yanked his weight off the ground.

Wesley shook his head. "Not you or Monica, because, sorry to say, you're too old. Plus, you swear like a Marine," he said, with a sideways glance at her as they walked up King. "I saw the photo of you in your dress blues. Su Min can't even open a pickle jar. It's not Becky, because I'd commit suicide. Plus, she's not sixteen unless she's lying."

Wesley ran his fingers through his hair. "The spell was cast relatively recently. Cherry received her powers around her sixteenth birthday. That means Suzie, at nineteen, is a tad old. Mikhaela, is a strong possibility, but with new information I received—"

"New information? From where?"

"A friend," he said dismissively.

When the sound of an engine roared from behind, Jane spun around and jerked her thumb out. The battered, blue pickup stopped. Jane ran up, spoke to the driver then signaled to Wesley to jump in the back with her.

"Get you back to Becky sooner," she said with a wink. "Go on, please. This is fascinating."

"Right, then. Mikhaela came from a prosperous family, with a private education. Vaun hasn't extraordinary healing abilities, unless the sprained wrist was contrived in order to get out chores, which I rather doubt with all her whinging. This leaves me with Keziah, Penny, Amy and Rose and one day."

"Your educated guess would be?"

Wesley shrugged. "Amy has stamina to match yours but it doesn't appear preternatural. She's from New Albany. From what I gather, hardly a rough life. Keziah, well, when she isn't reading horrid romance novels, she's assiduously avoiding work. Thus, I'd wager Penny or Rose. Both are adept at weaponry, although Rose will take out all the nearby shrubbery with a sword. Both came from difficult backgrounds."

Jane smiled brightly then banged on the side of the truck. They jumped out and waved the driver off.

"You are so gonna shit when you find out," Jane said then sighed. "My brothers would've liked you. After they mocked you, beat you to a pulp and locked you in the attic."

"How many brothers do you have?"

"Had. Five, all older. They thought I was a boy and named me after Frank Sinatra. You?"

"No siblings."

Jane shrugged. "Coulda guessed and not a happy childhood."

Wesley paused at the corner of Fifth and Neil. "Whatever makes you assume that?"

"The way you watch the kids when they're fighting or playing. And the awkward way you act when they ask you to join in."

"Being an only child doesn't mean I wasn't happy," he replied, willing the bitterness to not creep into his voice.

"You're the only one who hasn't mentioned missing some part of their family. When everyone else gets wistful, you brood."

"Perhaps that's because I know such thoughts are—"

Jane stopped in the middle of the street and raised a hand. "Shhh! Red lights."

"A bunch of whores," the demon, Wilson had begun to say before he changed his mind.

"Really," Wesley said. "Your personal pastimes don't—"

"Quiet!" Jane snapped. She scoured the sky, then turned back to him. "Red. Danger. Get it?"

The tornado sirens began, climbing to a steady, high pitch. She grabbed Wesley's hand and ran, dragging him along. As they dashed toward the block's fence, the siren's wail was still steady, but others joined across the city.

"Fuck!" Jane screamed over the cacophony. "Incoming! Air born!"

 

~*~

 

Wesley skidded to a halt, wrenching Jane along with him. "My car," he announced.

"We're under attack and you think about a damned Honda?"

"No, the supplies inside," he replied and pulled her through the Davison's yard into Riga Alley. After surveying the horizon, he opened the hatch and began to rifle through one of the wooden cases.

"Describe what we'll be fighting, Jane. I see nothing that would raise an alarm."

"Tornado siren generally means dragons. Each the size of a fucking transport. Only seen ‘em in groups." She glanced nervously skyward then back into the car as Wesley opened a second trunk. "The big ones are a metallic green. Smaller ones are coppery. Long, barbed tails. Saw a dead one once — smooth skin, not reptilian like I expected. Yellow eyes. Stunk like sulfur."

“Fire?”

“Never saw any.”

"Excellent," Wesley answered. "I’m fairly certain they’re Tafnair demons. Pack hunters. Guns will slow them down, flares more so. Better yet are flaming arrows, but the shooter must have excellent aim." He handed her a crossbow and some arrows as the sirens began another wail. "Get petrol or lighter fluid. Wrap, soak and shoot—"

"Jane," Monica yelled as she dashed toward them, followed by Su Min, Penny, Rose and Keziah. Monica glanced briefly into the hatch. "Outta Sandusky and are bee lining it for here. Kids’re in the basements. Su Min and I are on call." She slapped a walkie-talkie into Jane's hands then kissed her cheek. "I'll radio if we need you. Take care and see you'ns later." Placing her hand softly on Wesley's arm, she added, "Watch over my girls."

He nodded before returning his attention to the weapons.

Penny let out a low whistle. "Shit loada stuff. What do we get?"

Keziah chose a long sword, admiring its gleam as she tested it out. Wesley ignored Keziah’s lunges and parries and handed Penny and Rose each a flare gun and spare flares. He then opened the third case — filled with holy water, stakes and crosses — and handed everyone small vials of water.

"You a priest?" Keziah asked as she stuffed her pockets.

"No. Save the flares for dragons, whenever possible. Anything on the ground hit with the holy water, but try not to let them that close."

Rose's eyes bulged and she gulped repeatedly. “There’ll be things on the ground?”

"You're **not** a priest?"

"Idiots," Keziah mumbled under her breath. She lifted the top of the first case.

"This enough?" Penny asked. "I really want to get under cover before they get here." Jane nodded, and Penny led Rose back to the block.

"Hey, what's that?" Keziah said, pointing into the trunk of the car.

Wesley stopped stocking arrows and flares long enough to look in the direction of her finger. “It’s sixteenth century, Murshan—“

"Yoink!" Keziah announced as she pulled the dagger out of the hatch.

Wesley turned to reprimand her for taking one of the few mementoes left from his life, but found he was paralyzed by her appearance. Her just-below-shoulder, corkscrew curls were pulled back and restrained by a bright pink headband which served to emphasize the deep flush on her cheeks. The feverish sparkle in her light brown eyes turned them into a pair of faceted andalusites. Her breathing was controlled, but frenzied energy rolled off her in waves.

To her astonishment, Wesley snatched the long sword from her hand and gave her Jane’s crossbow.

"Get high, on a rooftop, if you can," he instructed, as he scoured for more arrows. Wordlessly, Jane handed her the ones he’d given her earlier. "Usually these dragons travel in a family structure. Fell the queen and they'll flee."

He turned to face Keziah. "Strike when the wings are closest to the sternum. You need to hit here," he said pushing his fingers into the base of her neck. "Strike there and you'll bring her down. Once on the ground, strike with the knife, **my** knife, into the back of the neck, just below the bulbous part of the skull."

Keziah nodded and slid the knife into her waistband.

"Oh," Wesley added. "I want my knife back. Intact."

"You got it, Father," she said, with a snicker and dashed out of sight.

Satisfied with his own choice of weaponry, Wesley chose an old but faithful Uzi for Jane. He closed the hatch and joined Jane next to the front bumper and followed her gaze, due north. The sky was filled with large, dark grey clouds, as if portending the outcome of upcoming fray.

“Where do you want me?” Wesley asked, holding the weapon out for her.

“Nine’s a lot,” she admitted. “The way—“

“Jane! Where?”

She stared at him then took the gun from his hands. “There’s a barrier on Fifth. The forward guard goes there and kills anything approaching the block.”

“Right, then,” Wesley said. “Let’s join the forward guard.”

As Jane led them up Hunter Avenue and across Fifth, one of the girls’ voices crackled over the radio. “Looks like they’re here. Delaware County, shit they’re huge, maybe Worthington.”

“Details!” Jane yelled into the walkie-talkie, quickening her pace down Hunter.

A male voice answered. “Thirty degrees above the horizon, nine, in a V-formation. Fast, huge one in front, leading. I’d guesstimate they’re already in Upper Arlington, heading toward Clintonville. Course change! They’re descending!”

Jane turned left and dove behind a hedge. Wesley followed suit, just as an unfamiliar woman’s voice informed them, “goons on the ground, parading down High.”

“Ready?” Jane asked Wesley, who simply arched an eyebrow.

“And Olentangy,” a guy said as he dropped down beside Jane. “Hey, Janie.”

“Hey, Mark.  Kids safe?”

“Sure. Hey, listen,” Mark said as he put his head above the hedge and scanned the area with binoculars. “Shit, dragons on campus. D&D was never like this.” He dropped back down and loaded his M16. “So, we figure we’re gonna have electricity in an hour or so. Wanna have a barbecue. Got some steaks, and dogs and Joey’ll make burgers. Here come Dan and Tom.”

“Sounds good. Got corn?”

He stood over the hedge again. “Yep, and marshmallows for S’mores later.”

“I ain’t coming without beer,” Jane said.

“Duck!”

All five flattened onto the ground as a copper dragon swooped past them. Wesley rolled over. When the dragon circled back, he had his crossbow loaded and aimed, patiently and silently waiting until the wings began their rhythmic descent toward the beast’s chest.

When they were horizontal, he whistled. The dragon turned in mid-flight to spot the source of the intrusive noise, the tips of its wings meeting briefly when the arrow hit just above its sternum. Once the arrow had left the stock, Wesley was in motion, springing over the hedge, drawing a hunting knife. The dragon screeched in pain as it spiraled earthward, crashing into the ruins of a house.

The forward guard heard a series of wails then relative silence returned.

“Almost makes me wanna jump his bones,” Jane muttered, before Wesley sprang back over the hedge. Mark snickered.

“Demons about two blocks away,” Wesley said as he wiped his knife on the grass. “Not many. Something seems to be dissuading them.”

“Update,” Mark said into his transmitter.

“Dragons over OSU, around Indianola. One’s missing. They’re circling.”

“Where’s the queen?” Wesley asked while loading his crossbow again.

Dan slithered farther down the hedgerow, as Jane asked her question. Tom followed Dan and set his sights on the road to the south.

“Yeah,” came a reply. “Wait, holy shit! The big one just dive-bombed. What the fuck?”

“If she’s down, they’ll abandon the hunt,” Wesley whispered. “One can hope the ground assault is minimal.” Jane nodded.

“They’re leaving!” someone screamed into the radio. A faint buzz crackled overhead, causing Tom to smile. Another voice added, “Electricity starting on Ninth and clicking forward. Goons look confused.”

“They’re going back too,” the youngest broadcaster announced.

 “That’s right! Run you ugly sons of bitches,” Dan screamed as he stood up. “Fear the wrath of the mighty human race.”

Wesley stood with the others and scanned the area. “It appears that this cohort of demons were tagging along for the possibility of carrion. Quite a few species are scavengers, along the line of vultures or the aardwolf. The Ignatim, for example—“

“Yeah, hungry and don’t give a shit,” Mark said. He rose and shook his head. Above him, streetlights pulsated in the late afternoon light. “Still, damnedest thing I ever saw. To answer Jane’s question, we got Bud, Miller Light, Heineken and Guinness.”

“Guinness?” Wesley repeated, as he followed the group home.

 

~*~

 

While the victors rolled their sundry supplies into Riga Alley and fired up the barbecues, the electricity sputtered and crackled like lightning. Plans had been to keep the celebrations within the secure confines of the block, but adrenaline, bicycles and the tease of electricity suggested otherwise. Sometime around Wesley's fourth explanation of how he came to have a trunk filled with crosses, crucifixes and holy water, as everyone finished their first course and begged for seconds under the pulsating glare of the streetlights, Penny ran out the street with news that contact with England had been established.

In the room at the top of the turret, where the CB, computer and various radios were stored, Wesley started another broadcast home. It took ten minutes of passwords and arguments until the operator on the Council's emergency band decided he wasn't a poseur. Once convinced, the operator agreed to find the most senior Watcher in the building to continue the conversation. Wesley gave the man the band information and warned him that electricity was guaranteed for only two more hours. After that, he leaned back in the chair and reached for his can of Guinness, closing his eyes as he savored the taste and formulated his explanations.

"Watcher's Council to Riga Block. Please come in. Over," the radio blared, the voice jarring Wesley upright.

All the old feelings were resurrected in the pit of his stomach. "This is Riga Block." He took a deep breath and sighed. Good evening, Father. Over."

The pause pulsated throughout the room. "The Council was told you were dead." Radio procedures tossed aside with the chilly statement.

What was he to say? _I was. It was a misunderstanding. Just for a short while. Sorry._

"I've found one of the missing Slayers —"

"Your mother grieved considerably."

 _Ever so sorry_. "I tried to make contact as soon as I could, but  —"

"Tried and fell predictably short. You say **you** found a Slayer my men missed? Over."

The disbelief in Roger Wyndham-Pryce's tone was undeniable. "Yes. There's another to be found. We'll be leaving to join her  —"

"You will do no such thing. Over."

"Father —"

"You will take this supposed Slayer and remand her into the custody of the Council who'll decide if she's genuine. We will have adept Watchers in St. Louis in two, three days. You will meet us there, at which time you will be relieved. Over."

Wesley thought of Keziah, and the unknown Laura, settled in the hands of the more experienced Council.

"We will not be able to be in St. Louis in that time, Father. Perhaps in a week. The roads between Missouri and Ohio are dangerous, often impassable and require diversions. Without proper documentation, we'll not be allowed to enter the city either. We shall have to stay in one of the camps on the outskirts. Over." The knot in his stomach tightened, threatening to push his lunch back through his esophagus.

"That will do. The liaisons will find you. It shouldn't be difficult. Do not let the Council down. Over and out."

Wesley took the headphones off and placed them gently on the desk, wrapping the long coils around the set, hoping the methodical movements would calm his racing heart. Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes and concentrated on deep, steady breaths.

"How long have you been back?" he asked.

A clang on the table forced his eyes open and in its direction.

"Not long," the girl answered, perching herself on the desk in front of Wesley. Her hair was wrapped in a terry towel and she smelled faintly of vanilla and peaches. "Brought it back. All nice and shiny. Even washed the goop off."

"Thank you, Keziah. It's a precious relic. Very dear to me. How did you fare?"

She raised her shoulder a fraction and twitched a reluctant smile as if it answered his question. "I hear you did good."

"I did well, thank you. Were you hurt at all?" he asked, his eyes searching her for any visible signs of injury.

"Getting better," she said and held out her arm. Welts from the bow's string burned crimson against her skin.

He recalled bitterly the reprimands that followed his first archery lessons. How he had wanted an icepack and encouragement, but instead was sent to his room without his tea.

"As will you with time and practice," he said finally. He tried to meet her gaze, but she kept her eyes downward. "Something else bothers you?"

"I couldn't do like you said," she replied, her shoulders falling forward, her eyes flitting briefly toward the radio.

Again, he heard his father's disappointment ringing in his ears. "You returned without serious injury. What more —"

"She was hard. I had to use two arrows 'cuz the first one didn't go right."

Wesley chuckled in relief. "Is that all? Hardly worth mentioning, as in the end you felled her."

"I think you got the wrong person." When Wesley jerked back and frowned, Keziah seemed to fold in onto herself. "I get these dreams."

"Of other Slayers," he remarked. "It's very common."

"Them girls always did things right."

At that Wesley laughed. "Hardly. They often made and I'm certain still do make mistakes. Some quite cataclysmic."

Keziah began to chew on her ragged thumbnail as her brows furrowed into a deep V.

"Cataclysmic means ginormous mistakes. The worst ones broke the Council's most sacred rules." Her eyes opened wide; her curiosity piqued. He leaned forward and whispered, "they made friends, went to dances, to the mall and whined in high pitched, annoying voices about having to fulfill their duties. The latter should not be a problem for you, because I'll personally box your ears at the first change in timbre." He watched her eyes narrow as she interpreted his vacant threat. "Now, go downstairs and eat. We'll need to be on the road tomorrow and you should spend time with your friends whilst you're able."

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Of course."

"That man on the radio? He's really your father?"

Wesley's brow arched. "Yes."

"You gonna dump me on him?"

Wesley thought of all the possible answers he could give and decided on, "No."

Keziah jumped off the desk and whipped the towel off her hair. Rubbing her hair furiously, she answered, "good, 'Cuz I'll skip if I hear his prissy voice ten yards from me."

"What makes you say that?" Wesley watched as the towel was tossed over a distant chair.

"He never said he missed you. He was pissed off you'd been dead. So, eff him and his Pervert Council."

Buffy and Faith will like this one, he thought to himself as she stomped down the stairs with the force of a score of Slayers.

 

~*~

 

Cordelia's eyes had been so uncharacteristically soft, like milk chocolate drops, he recalled _. "Look around you, Wesley. Pay close attention. Things are not the same. Yet they remain as they always were. Choose wisely. Choose with the future in mind."_

"Hey, Father Wesley," Jane said, strolling casually over to the SUV, face shielded by a Cleveland Indians' baseball cap and large, aviator sunglasses. Keziah sauntered beside her, her soft brown eyes twinkling with mischief. "You leaving before you eat?"

"Please do not call me 'father', and I've eaten."

"You're gonna wanna repack that mess," Jane said while Keziah started to rummage through one of the trunks.

"Why on earth would I want to do that?"

"Well, because I got us a better truck."

"Us? What do you mean 'us'?"

"I'm coming with." He saw his shock in the reflection of her lenses. Keziah was still bubbling with impertinence. "No freakin' way am I lettin' you cruise around the US alone with a young girl. For all I know you could be a pervert." She shrugged. "Besides, I've seen what's what and you'ns'll need a nurse. Proper prior planning prevents poor performance, as Pop used to say."

"You do have a point, and there's no hope in Hell I can persuade you otherwise."

"Nope."

"Fine," he said, turning to glare at Keziah who clapped and giggled. "This is not a road trip."

"Well, yeah, actually it is," Jane corrected.

Wesley rolled his eyes. "So, where is this truck and how did you come by it?"

"Good choice of words. It's on Fourth. He'll bring it 'round after lunch. A Ford, 2004, seats five, covered bed which is accessible from the inside, and I got it the usual way."

"Which is?"

"Sex, you idiot. Can't use my standard 'I'm being deployed tomorrow' so I modified it to 'going off to fight the apocalypse —' What?"

"That line actually worked?"

Jane stepped back and pulled her sunglasses down onto the bridge of her nose. "Of course. It's always worked for guys, why shouldn't it work for me?"

"Ain't you never used it?" Keziah asked.

"I've never had the occasion, I can assure you."

"Means you ain't never thought of it. I bet you're all vanilla."

"That young lady, is none of your —"

"You can score all sorts of stuff," Jane said. "With a little imagination and curiosity, all —"

"I do **not** want to know," Wesley said, holding his hands up in capitulation.

"I'm gonna try it," Keziah announced. "It'd be a change from my standard 'you wanna pop my —'"

"Oh, dear God," Wesley interrupted.

"Sure," Jane said. "You got 'til afternoon. That cherry line is, well, out of date."

"I do **not** want to know," Wesley yelled and slammed the hatch door closed.

Chuckling softly, they both watched Wesley return to the house. Keziah turned to Jane, smiled and yelled, "Shotgun!"

 

~*~

 

What would have been a six- or seven-hour trip in 2005, turned into a two-day training mission. The first lesson had been about the dangers of sightseeing on a post-Apocalyptic interstate. While trying to decipher Wesley's notes across the map, Keziah had remarked about the abundance of towns named Columbus, Springfield and Shelbyville. Just east of Lebanon— as Keziah tried to figure out which one was the hometown of the Simpsons — in a tone Wesley assumed was reserved for combat or the emergency room, Jane demanded they stop to investigate an overturned car whose engine was still smoking. Once she was convinced someone had to guard the car, Wesley and Keziah surveyed the scene, only to find a pair of Waktil roasting a poodle. The stunned demons with rhinoceros-like horns were quickly dispatched by an eager and disgusted Slayer.

Just north of the exit for Batesville, as the sun escaped below the horizon, Keziah stopped singing along with Missy Elliott and suddenly screeched for the car to stop. Resigned to her post as sentry, Jane watched as Keziah leapt from the car and Wesley struggled to catch up. They'd been gone less than ten minutes when Jane felt the hair on the back of her neck stand at attention. Confirming that the antiquated crossbow was within reach of her fingertips, she turned to see what had possibly been a monster back for the Wildcats staring into the window. The former football player had the thickest tree-stump of a neck she'd ever seen in her life, the longest canines outside the zoo. As Jane silently wiggled the crossbow into her hand, he began to rock the car, reveling in the fear that involuntarily crossed her face. However, his grimace froze into a death mask as he slid down the side of the car to be replaced with the visage of a very angry Keziah holding a stake.

"Fucking football demons," Keziah said as soon as she was able to climb into the car. "As if I'm gonna let a jock live."

"He's already dead, Keziah," Wesley reminded her while he slipped behind the steering wheel. With a furtive peek in Jane's direction, he turned the engine over and drove onto the road. "Vampires take on the appearance of the humans whose bodies they—"

"Embody," Jane added with a snicker as she wiggled down into the seat.

"Precisely."

"Sooo, what you're sayin'," Keziah tried to summarize, "is that any one of us can be a shell for any hermit crab demon that comes along."

Wesley stared at the highway ahead while the transformation from a laughing, loving Fred to the reptilian Illyria flickered before his eyes.

"Wesley?"

He blinked rapidly then pulled the car off to the side. "Jane, take over. We need to get off at Greenburg and follow route forty-six west. After that, the roads should be passable to Terra Haute and I-70." He flung the driver's door open and stepped out into the acrid night, not stopping when he reached the asphalt.

"What'd I do?" Keziah asked. "Where's he goin'?"

Jane opened the door and followed Wesley to the opposite side of the road, where he seemed to be engaged in an angry conversation with an invisible partner. She watched as he threw rocks and yelled at the silent star-lit night then collapsed on the shoulder of the road.

She walked softly up to where he'd fallen and knelt in front of him. "Are you hurt?"

He barked a bitter, short laugh but shook his head. She waited a moment longer, then asked, "You up for this?"

Wesley sighed deeply. "It seems I've no choice in the matter."

"Of course you do. I can take Kez wherever she needs to be."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I made a deal. I have to see this through."

"You made a deal for Keziah?"

"That I'd find her and Laura and keep them safe. They're important."

"And what do you get in return? Holiday pay?"

Wesley chuckled. "I'm not being paid. I get the chance to be with the one person who loved me unconditionally." He sighed again. "Of course, that was before I failed her." He gazed across into Jane's blue eyes then down at the gravel. "She — I couldn't save her. She died."

"Man, you have one fucking helluva chip on your shoulder." Jane stood and brushed the dirt off her jeans. When she met his astounded stare, she continued, "I lost my fiancé. Tried as much as I could to stop the stupid bastard from dying on me, but couldn't. Kinda hard when there are shells going off around you, ya know? But I sure as shit is brown did not wallow in a pity party. I **did** something. Now, get off your skinny ass and take care of that girl who thinks she caused your emotional breakdown."

Jane stormed off, muttering to herself and kicking the gravel while Wesley watched in awe. Slowly he rose and started back but paused when her voice rose an octave and she almost jerked the handle from the car door. As soon as the door slammed shut and he was certain he was safe from projectiles, he continued back to the truck.

He glanced back at Keziah, who had her head buried in one of his texts, the flashlight aimed at a woodcut of a Waktil demon. She refused to lift her head in acknowledgment, which sent a puzzled Wesley looking in Jane's direction for guidance, but to no avail. Wesley climbed into the truck and pushed the seat back as far as it would go. Keziah shifted her position but said nothing.

With a sigh, he apologized. "I'm terribly sorry for the incident outside, Keziah. I assure you it was nothing you said or did, but rather sheer coincidence that your phraseology stirred up painful memories. I need a moment to compose myself."

"He's sorry he's a sad dick who's mourning his girlfriend," Jane explained. "He got angry 'cuz he couldn't find any wood to build a cross to hang himself from."

"You two are fucked up," Keziah mumbled, then shoved the book in Wesley's face. "These the ugly shits we sliced and diced?"

 "Yes," Wesley answered and tried desperately to get comfortable in the seat. He grabbed Jane's sunglasses and put them on while she returned the truck to the interstate.

"It says here all we had to do is toss some foey-en-ick-you-lum vul—"

" _Foeniculum vulgare_ , Latin for fennel," Wesley said as he felt his eyelids droop and the muscles in his neck rebel against the headrest. "Waktil demons combust around it. Unfortunately, it isn't in season and so we had to julienne them out of existence. And now on to St. Louis, madam driver."

"See, he does have a sense of humor," Keziah said over Wesley's soft snoring.

"A real Julia Child," Jane mumbled.

Keziah grabbed their jackets off the floor of the cab and bunched them into a pillow. "He's okay, Janie. His dad's an prick, though."

"Just make sure you keep an eye out. Be alert and suspicious. If he's the most stable thing they've got on this council, we ditch him. No second chances. We go home. Got it?"

"Yes, Sarge."

"Damn straight." Jane peered into the rear view mirror as Keziah drifted off to sleep. "And don't you forget it, buncha maggots."

 

~*~

 

“Nice wheels. Which one was you lookin’ for?” Sam asked with a cynical smirk as he leaned against the truck.

“I’ll leave that to your imagination,” Wesley replied in kind. “Frankie’s the blonde, but she goes by Jane, and Keziah is—“

“The cousin you rescued from the wilds of Ohio.” Sam tipped his Cardinals’ cap at the women who were unloading a box from the back of the truck.

“If you insist.”

“Go on in,” Sam said. “Joanna’s out with some kid, nightmares keep the neighbors awake all night, as you can well imagine, but Margaret’s in the office. She’ll be tickled to see you.”

Wesley nodded sanguinely. “Bob here? We brought coffee.”

“Ah, smart man,” Sam said, waving to someone driving into the compound. “That’ll be him there. You stayin’ long?”

“No, just overnight. I’d like to speak with you before we leave.”

Sam straightened up and scratched his head before putting his baseball cap back on. “Well, it’s almost six. You start a fresh pot. I’ll come in soon as Chuck shows up.”

“Right. Thank you, Sam,” Wesley said and watched as Sam walked back to the camp’s front gate.

The trio entered the building and put the carton of Folger’s coffee on the counter. Jane let out a soft whistle when she caught sight of the armory. Waving Keziah over to the display, she gave the girl an impromptu lesson on the different weapons, while Wesley stayed at the counter and observed.

Margaret emerged from Joanna’s office and reacted as if she hadn’t seen him in years. She hugged and fussed over Wesley until she caught sight of Keziah, who shifted from foot to foot and frowned at the commotion. She saw how the older woman squinted back at her, then how her features softened when Wesley whispered something in her ear. Margaret’s eyes fell in obvious sadness then she moved forward to grab Keziah by both arms.

“She’s skinny,” Margaret announced. “Let’s see your face, girl,” she demanded and an uncomfortable Keziah complied. “My Lord, ain’t you got beautiful eyes? So clear and sharp.” Margaret turned to Wesley. “This one’s gonna know when you’re trying something, so you mind your manners, young man.”

“Yes, Margaret.” Surprisingly, Wesley winked at Keziah. “She eats like there’s no tomorrow, so perhaps you have something more substantial than Twinkies?”

“What’s wrong with Twinkies?” Keziah demanded.

“You been taking care of this child?” Margaret asked Jane.

“More of a mutual arrangement, ma’am,” Jane answered. “She’s a good kid.”

“Don’t doubt it for a minute. You all go ‘round to the staff area and we’ll start eatin’.” Margaret started to leave but turned back. “But I don’t care what you been through, touch those guns and I’ll whop your butts.”

Keziah waited until the older woman disappeared into one of the two offices. “Okay, she’s scary.”

“Margaret?” Wesley asked. “She’s salt of the earth.”

“I don’t what that means but she was gonna hug me.”

“Worse could happen, trust me.” He nodded as the door opened and Margaret emerged with a heavy casserole dish. “This may be the last home-cooked meal you eat for a while, so enjoy.”

As Margaret brought out the food that had been keeping warm in the kitchen, Joanna and Bob walked in with Sam. After introductions and greetings, the group sat down. Over the meal, Jane embellished their first meeting with Wesley, describing in lurid detail his stay in a household of women. She and Keziah regaled them with descriptions of the apocalyptic battles, while Bob told of the damage wrought along the Mississippi. The evening continued in a relaxed fashion: plans were made, hopes outlined and coffee enjoyed.

When Joanna invited the women on a tour of the compound, Bob also rose from the table. “You found what you was lookin’ for, and now?”

“Ah, well,” Wesley started and began to stack the remaining dishes. “Keziah —“

“Isn’t your cousin. Next shock?”

Wesley laughed. “No, but she’s a very special woman. One of a rare type known as Slayers.”

“One of them punks who came through here was screaming about knocking off Slayers. Same thing?” Bob asked.

“I thought he said ‘knocking up’,” Sam said.

Bob pursed his lips then nodded slowly in consideration. Wesley frowned and asked, “Thick, crude, British accent? Peroxide blond?”

“As a matter of fact.”

“Accompanied by a taller man—“

“And a blue broad,” Sam answered. “She was weird, and that’s sayin’ something.”

“Did they say in which direction they were traveling?” 

Bob eyed him warily. “You runnin’ from them?”

“No.” Wesley hesitated. “Actually, I’d very much like to see them.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But at the moment what I want is neither here nor there. In less than a week a group of men are going to be scouring the camps for Keziah.”

“They don’t know you’re here?” Sam asked. “How they gonna find her? She doesn’t look special.”

 “They’re very determined. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Right,” Bob said. “They look like you? Talk like you?”

Wesley thought about the last time he’d seen any of the Council. “I’m fairly certain my father will be leading the search.”

“Ah,” Bob said and tched. “The man who ain’t particularly fond of anyone. Especially you, I’m assumin’.”

“Exactly,” Wesley replied. “I need to find the other Slayer. She’s in Idaho but I need time to get to her. Before they do.”

Bob cleared his throat. “I ain’t saying I understand why you feel the need to protect these girls from your own flesh and blood but,” he cleared his throat again, “here’s what I’m suggesting. You got here on Thursday but got spooked and drove off to Iowa.”

“Idaho,” Sam corrected.

“Like I said, Iowa. And we’ll say Dubuque. I got, had, rather, cousins there. Then you said you were heading off to …” He waited for a prompt.

“Always wanted to go to Disney World,” Sam mumbled.

“Ain’t there no more, I hear,” Bob said. “Where is it you’re really headed after potato country?”

Wesley paused.

_"They’re needed at one of the hellmouths that’s erupted recently. I loved Park City. Such a waste of the wealthy. Anyway, you’ll meet with old … colleagues in Provo. But no skiing! And no Sundance, either! If I can’t go, neither can you!"_

“Utah.”

Bob shook his head. “Florida it is. What’ll they do to you when they finally catch up with you, young man?”

Wesley shrugged. “Simple misunderstanding. I’ve detailed my plans. Not my fault middle America cannot understand the subtleties of the Queen’s English.”

Bob stared at him, his eyes hard and unblinking.

“No need to worry,” Wesley said. “I’ve always been a disappointment to my father. I’d hate to ruin his expectations.”

“Leave everything to us, son,” Margaret said and put her hand on Wesley’s shoulder. “We can disappoint with the best of ‘em.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The black car with its tinted windows rolled laboriously up to the closed gates. The guard on duty drummed his fingers on top of the roof while he waited for the driver's window to open.

“Can’t let you in. Plates’re outta state,” he said, casually scanning the interior of the automobile. He noticed four men, impeccably dressed in suits he swore never to wear again, bulges barely noticeable under their jackets. It was the older man in the front passenger’s seat who confirmed Sam’s suspicion.

“We’re looking for a couple,” the driver said after Sam cracked his gum and began to drum his fingers again. Inwardly Sam smiled and brought out all the training he’d had his freshman year in college.

“Coupla what?” he drawled.

The rear window rolled down and a younger man, his dark blond hair slicked back — whether from sweat or gel, Sam was unsure — leaned out. “A tall guy and a sixteen year old girl,” he said, his American accent tarnished by time overseas.

“You got any idea how many people are in here? How you expect us to pick out one kinky pair? And if they ain’t from Missouri, they ain’t here. And you ain’t neither.”

The elder passenger leaned toward Sam. “My name is Roger Wyndham-Price. The man we’re looking for is my son. He’s been charged with delivering the girl into our aegis.”

“Into your whatsit?” Sam asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bob emerge from the main building. He took his cap off and scratched his head.

Roger emitted a hoarse sigh. “Into our custody. Perhaps it would be best if we spoke to the person in charge of these facilities.”

“Funny co-inkydink. Here he comes now.” Sam straightened up and arched an eyebrow. Bob grinned thinly.

“There seem to be a problem, Sam?”

“These here people say they’re lookin’ for a couple that come in.”

Bob started at the unusual drawl, but picked up his cue. “We had a couple come in lately?”

“No siree, Bob. Had that family from Jefferson, that sweet old lady from Branson and that real cute girl from Saint Charles.”

Bob leaned into the car. “Any of them sound familiar?”

“My son is tall, slender, well educated,” Roger began.

“And British,” the man in the back added.

“Thank you, Andrew,” Roger said. “He would have been travelling with a much younger woman. Sixteen or seventeen.”

“Paedophile, huh? She got red hair?”

“Possibly,” Andrew blurted out. Roger turned and gave him a menacing stare.

“Ain’t seen no redheads,” Bob said. “Did have an English guy come in. In one helluva rush. Heading out for,” Bob looked at Sam, “Georgia, wasn’t it?”

“Iowa. He was meetin’ up with folks.” Sam leaned into Andrew’s window. “Then they was headin’ to Florida. Always wanted to go to Disney World myself.”

“How long ago did they leave?”

“This morning, wasn’t it?" Bob asked. "Things are so hectic ‘round here since Hell came knockin'. If you all wanna catch them, you're gonna have to go back through Illinois then Wisconsin. We don’t like letting foreigners into our cities no more.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” Roger said and nodded to the driver.

Sam and Bob watched as the black car drove away from the compound and headed east.

“They ‘re still in the office?” Bob asked when the car drove out of sight.

“Yep,” Sam said, replacing his cap on his head.

“That blue woman, too? I don’t want her out scaring the normals.”

“Yep.” Sam turned to Bob. “How long before we tell them?”

“Been three days? I’m thinking Wesley and the girls’ll arrive in Idaho tonight or tomorrow. So, how about two more days of extra night watch? Buy Joanna pizza and a coupla beers to stick around. She’s got the hots for the tall guy. Something about him makes me wanna ralph.”

 

~*~

 

" Ain't shit all around here. You sure you’re supposed to turn off this road?"

"That's what sleeping beauty said."

Keziah popped up between the two seats. "’Sleeping beauty,’ huh? If that's so, how come you ain't done him yet?"

"Because I will personally disembowel with excruciatingly slow precision and extreme satisfaction the owner of the next female voice I hear," Wesley grumbled. "Just turn left when you come to the sign for NF30. It’ll be in North Fork, hence the ‘NF’. " He rolled over onto his side, trying furtively to finish what little sleep he'd manage to capture. "Dear God, why can't you two be silent? A bloody hour is all I ask."

 "Cross," Jane mouthed into the rear view mirror, while Keziah stifled a giggle.

She continued north on US-93, warily keeping an eye out for odd creatures lurking in the desolation of the dawn hours. Just outside of Carmen they had noticed a pack of what looked to be a cross between werewolves and deer, but at Keziah's description, Wesley had just shrugged in his semi-sleep and instructed them to drive on.

 

_"Once upon a time we could say Laura'd have the dream life waiting for her: college sweetheart, large family complete with drooling dog, white picket fence. But now—" The air felt heavier with the pause. "Now that's lost."_

_" I still do not understand why I'm the one you've chosen for this 'rescue mission'. And please, no more of the last soldier standing routine."_

_Cordelia smiled wistfully when she finally tore herself from the devastation of the apocalypse. "You have issues, Wes. Father issues, abandonment issues, failure issues, probably ejac—."_

_" I get the picture, Cordelia. I'm flawed."_

_"Apparently you don't get it," she said, irritation leaking through her polished poise. "Everyone's flawed. Flaws make us who we are. What you need to do is learn to accept your flaws."_

_She faced him. "'_ _Certain flaws are necessary for the whole. It would seem strange if old friends lacked certain quirks.' Some dead-like-me guy said that. Joe Wolf— something."_

Wesley jolted from his sleep as the car bounced none too gently. "I take it we're no longer on the Lewis and Clark Trail." He stretched and tried to open his eyes.

"Left those trailblazers behind about thirty minutes ago," Jane announced. "This has got to be murder on the suspension. And I don't think there'll be a mechanic around."

Wesley glanced at the brilliant greens and browns of the surrounding mountains. "Did you see anyone? Back in North Fork?"

"It was still early," Keziah answered. "Don't think anyone with half a brain goes out in the night."

“How the blue blazes are we going to find this girl, Wesley? There are empty houses all over the damned place.”

“He found me, Janie.”

“It was you or another week with Becky, kid.”

“There!” Wesley yelled suddenly. He pointed off to their right. “Turn down that road.”

Jane turned as instructed, but only after casting an evil eye in Wesley’s direction. They drove down a long dusty path that hadn’t seen a steady rain for some time, despite the greenery lining the way. Ahead the road turned gently toward the south, large trees impeding their view. A white picket fence heralded the entrance into an unnamed farm: the mailbox had been broken recently: the wooded post was still pale, not yet weathered by the elements.

Beyond the fence, the lawn was neatly manicured, recently mowed. The flowerbeds were still in bloom but were beginning to go to seed. The hedges were expertly manicured, trimmed just below the white windowsills. The red brickwork of the house was immaculately tended; only a few bricks in the corners were chipped.

“You sure about this?” Keziah asked. “Don’t look like anyone’s home.”

“I’m positive,” Wesley assured her. As soon as Jane stopped the car, he pointed toward a blue Ford and a small riding mower. “She’s here, but let’s assume she’s not alone.”

“So? Let’s go find out,” Jane said and opened her door. She refused to wait for anyone, but instead bounced up the front stairs and rang the doorbell.

Wesley waited by the car and surveyed the area. The detached garage could possibly hold three cars, and had an apartment above it: the lace curtains were a dead giveaway. Behind the house, a postcard-perfect red and white barn stood, the upper doors open but Wesley saw neither hay nor animals in the vicinity. The farm looked well tended, at least as far as he could see, but with no agricultural training, he could be mistaken.

He turned and saw Jane shrug her shoulders dramatically as the door remained unanswered.

“What now?” Keziah asked.

Wesley scanned the area again. “You check the garage. Her name’s Laura. Jane’ll check the barn and I’ll scope out the grounds. She’s here, but perhaps we’ve startled her.”

“Okay, but this reminds me of a movie I saw once, called _Children of the Corn_ and man, that Isaac kid—“

“It was a movie, Keziah, the make-believe world of some very disturbed Hollywood producer. This is Idaho, and those are potatoes, not corn.”

“You sure?” she asked.

No, he thought to himself, but answered, “Have I misled you yet?”

Keziah shrugged and jogged to the garage. Wesley spoke to Jane and then started his own tour. He had turned the corner, when Keziah jogged up and shook her head. Together they walked around to the back of the house when Keziah suddenly tugged on Wesley’s sleeve, jerking him to a halt. She pointed ahead and he followed her finger to an open storm cellar door.

“Laura?” Wesley called out hesitantly.

Jane walked up and said, “Nothing but I smell bread. How freaky is that?”

Wesley held up his hand and repeated, “Laura?”

From the dank darkness of the storm cellar, a young girl emerged, carrying a basket in her right hand and a large mason jar in her left. Her face was lightly freckled and framed by a mass of glossy, corn silk hair, held in check by a rose headband. She was dressed in jeans and a pink blouse, but wore a blue gingham apron over her clothes.

“You’re here already! Gosh, I don’t think the bread is ready yet,” she said, not breaking stride. She handed Wesley the basket and held out her right hand to Jane. “I’m Laura.”

“Jane,” Jane replied and turned to Wesley. “This is—“

“My Watcher. I know,” Laura said, oblivious to the shocked expressions. She turned and looked over Keziah very thoroughly. “I’ve never met a—“

She paused when Wesley cleared his throat as a warning to Keziah, who arched an eyebrow and put her hands on her hips. “This is Keziah, Laura.”

Laura smiled. “I like that name. Sounds Biblical.” Keziah’s eyes narrowed. “But I was saying, I’ve never met a Slayer before. We’re like sisters.” She forcibly snaked an arm through Keziah’s and led them toward the back door.

“The bread should be done. There’re peaches in the jar. I got some eggs this morning, but there’s no bacon. Doesn’t keep if the electricity goes off for too long.”

“Whoa, Nellie!” Jane yelled. When everyone stopped, she asked, “How did you know we were coming?”

Laura gave them a wide, toothy smile. “I prayed. How else?” She continued on her way. “I’ve set up beds, but I didn’t know about Jane. While you’re eating, I can make up one for you. We’ve had sun, so there’s some hot water, and I can start up the generator if you need laundry done.”

Keziah turned her head and mouthed, “Help!” before they reached the back steps.

A medium-sized, long-haired dog ran up to the screen door, barking ferociously at the newcomers. Laura snapped a series of commands then turned with another smile.

“Don’t mind Moroni. He won’t bite you. He’s a good dog, just a bit jumpy lately.”

Keziah side stepped the dog, who sat with his tongue hanging out and his tail thumping loudly on the linoleum, and followed Laura inside. Wesley entered next, patting the dog’s head despite Jane’s loud tch behind him.

“You got coffee?” Jane asked as she entered the kitchen, deeply inhaling the scent of fresh bread.

“Oh, we don’t drink coffee,” Laura explained and directed Keziah to a chair at the dining room table. “We have Postum if you want. Oh! And orange juice!”

“Freshly squeezed, I bet,” Jane whispered, taking the chair next to Keziah.

“Laura,” Wesley began as Laura put a fresh loaf of bread, still steaming, on the table. “Where’s your family? You do have brothers and sisters?”

“Oh, yes. I have three brothers and a sister.” She brought the juice to the table. “Is it okay if the eggs are scrambled?”

Jane glared at Wesley, who ignored her and answered, “That’s fine, Laura. But tell me, how long has your family been gone?”

 A shadow flickered briefly over Laura’s face. “Well, Josiah lives in Los Angeles with his wife and their kids. We haven’t heard from them in a while, but the phone’s been weird. Ethan is on his mission in South America.” She sighed. “Judith, she lives in Kanab, that’s in Utah, she had her baby. It was premature, so my mother took Danny down there with her to help. Dad drove down to meet them at grandmother’s house in Logan—“

“Laura,” Wesley interrupted, grabbing and squeezing her hand gently. “How **long** ago did your father leave?”

Laura chewed on her lips and, Wesley could see, bit down on the inside of her mouth to keep from crying.

“A month ago.” Suddenly her face brightened and she smiled. “But I prayed. I know they’ll be back now that you’re here!”

 

~*~

 

Wesley paced. The animals had been fed — he was thoroughly convinced chickens were creatures of the devil— and now, among the quiet chewing of feed and dried grass, he ruminated. The past two days at the small farm had been idyllic.

Too idyllic.

He discovered that Laura’s culinary talent was inherited from her mother. Her older brother had interested her in martial arts; she was a brown belt in judo and a blue belt in aikido. She could shoot tin cans with deadly accuracy but screamed operatically whenever a spider crossed her path. Laura was well read and when not proving her domestic prowess, managed to steer Keziah away from Harlequin toward Jane Austen; away from Missy Elliott toward Broadway musicals.

For those two miracles alone, Wesley would be eternal grateful.

The girls, despite being polar opposites, were getting along very well: both understood the importance of their calling; both realized that their futures were dangerous and uncertain; both realized upon whom they could depend. They could work as a team, of that he was certain, after only two days.

But worries weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Keziah knew what it felt like to kill something that had once been human: deeply religious Laura couldn’t bring herself to shoot a rabid raccoon. It had been long enough for the Council to figure out that they had been duped and to come searching for the wayward troupe. He needed to move the girls south, but Laura was convinced her family would be returning and refused to be budged.

“Have to be inside the house before dark. Your orders,” Jane said as she pushed the barn door open. “What’s goin’ on, Chief? Oh, the girls decided that’s your new name. They named me Agent 99.”

“I need to talk to you. Close the door,” Wesley ordered and went back to his pacing.

Jane sat on a haystack. “Can you believe that lasagna? From scratch. And the garlic bread? From scratch. She’s fuck—“

“Great.”

“Wow, what’s with you? Eat too much?”

“Laura.” Wesley stopped pacing and stood in front of Jane. “She’s too vulnerable.”

“To what? Kryptonite?”

“To be a Slayer. To kill demons. To everything except Cordon Bleu.”

She nodded. “Roger that. Now what?”

“I have to get her out of here before my father appears on her doorstep.”

“Can’t we wait until her family comes back?”

“You, too?” He threw his hands up in the air. “Is this a female condition? Obsessing over the romantic notion that her family will miraculously appear after a month?”

“You don’t think it’ll happen?”

He considered the question carefully. “I think it’s possible, yes.”

“Then what **is** the problem?” Jane asked with a chuckle. “Make her a deal. If they don’t—“

“ **If** her family shows up, they’ll not be the same.”

“Hell breaks loose, everyone changes—“

“They’ll be vampires zombies, or worse. How do I handle her when that happens?” He joined Jane on the haystack. “They don’t teach that at the Academy.”

“What would you do if your parents became one of those things?”

“Stake them,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“Okay, I know you and your dad don’t—“

“They’re better off dust than demon, Jane.” He put his head in his hands. “I have this overwhelming sense of dread.”

“Bet that’s not a huge emotional stretch for you.” Jane jumped off the haystack and held out her hand. When he refused the offer, she shrugged.  “Let’s see if we can get Laura to go to Utah. Isn’t Salt Lake big for her people? Leave her family a note that we’ll be in — Where’re we goin’?“

“Provo” Wesley sighed. “You’re right.” He held the barn door open.

“Usually am,” she agreed.

“And arrogant.”

“Rightly so, Chief.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, opening the back door. Moroni greeted them with an enthusiastic wag of his entire rear half then trailed quietly at their heels.

“Father?”

“Right,” Wesley sighed again. “Chief, it is.”

Moroni hesitated in the hallway, snout high in the air, nostrils flaring, but after a sharp whistle from Wesley, joined them all in the front room. There, among the overstuffed chairs, the unused television and stereo Keziah and Laura sat in front of the fireplace, engrossed in one of the family albums. From the looks of the cover, Wesley estimated it had been complied within the latest few years: photos of high school and church events; postcards from Japan, LA and South America; souvenirs from family trips. He looked to Jane for guidance, but she skillfully stared into the fireplace.

“Laura,” Wesley said. “We need to leave soon.”

She looked up from the photo album. “Okay, just as soon as my parents come back.”

“About that,” he started.

“Hey, Chief?” Keziah interrupted. “When we’re done with all this Slayer sh—, stuff, can we take Laura back to Columbus? I want her to meet Mon and everybody.”

Moroni jumped up from a rug to sniff around the hallway. A low growl erupted briefly before Jane called the dog back into the room.

“Sure, Keziah. Listen, Laura,” Wesley began again, but stopped as herose from the chair to look out the window. The last thing he wanted to do was see her face when he explained to her about vampires and other revenants. On the rug in front of the fire, Moroni snarled softly, as if he didn’t like the explanation, either.

The night was crisp and clear. Thin, wispy clouds and no city lights meant that the full moon seemed unnaturally bright. The shrubbery near the white picket fence rustled in the gentle breeze.

“I don’t think we should wait for your parents,” Wesley continued. “I firmly believe that it would be in your best interests to move on within the next day or two.”

“But—“

“We’ll leave them a note,” Jane suggested. “You said you prayed and knew we were coming. They probably did, too.”

Moroni raised his head and bared his teeth, eyes glued to the hallway.

“Yeah,” Keziah said. “They gotta get the same message, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Moroni, would you shut up!” Jane snapped as he growled again.

“We’ll leave very explicit details for them. I promise,” Wesley said. He frowned and turned to Jane. With a slight jerk of his head, he beckoned her to the window.

Moroni left the rug and dashed down the hallway to the front door.

“What?” Jane asked in a hushed tone.

“Keep Laura inside.” Wesley stared straight ahead. He lifted his head slightly, motioning in the direction of the bushes. “You stay with her, and no matter what happens, do not open the door.”

“What’s out there?”

Moroni growled menacingly from the doorway.

“Full moon, so my first guess would be werewolves. I’ll take Keziah. Laura’s not up to it.”

He turned to face the room. “Keziah, crossbows and arrows. Now, with me. Laura, stay inside with Jane.”

Wordlessly, Keziah ran upstairs for weapons.

“This isn’t training, Laura. Be prepared for anything, Jane. Don’t let anyone in. **No** one.”

Jane nodded but cast a glance at the hallway where Moroni’s snarl shifted to a whine and back again. Keziah fled down the stairs, barely a creak in the staircase. She tossed Wesley a bow and followed him to the back door. Jane went to the window, noticed a flash of white then snapped the curtains shut.

“Moroni, come here,” Laura said, her voice quivering.

The dog glanced at her briefly but returned his attention to the door.

“Laura, go get the first aid kit from the kitchen, please,” Jane requested. “Wesley said to be prepared, so we will.”

“Okay,” Laura agreed then left the living room.

Moroni growled once more at the front door then followed Laura down the hallway. Jane heard the kitchen door open, heard the cupboards open and close, then the kit being placed on the table. Floorboards creaked, a brief silence followed.

“Jane! They’re here,” Laura screamed, both relief and excitement evident in her voice.

Jane’s head snapped up. “Laura! Don’t open the door!”

“But, it’s Ethan and my mother!” Laura announced. She turned to see Jane race into the kitchen, just as she pulled the door open. “I told you!”

“Shit!” Jane screamed.

Things seem to move in slow motion for Jane, an experience she’d had only twice before in her life. The door opened. Laura turned. There, just beyond the screen door stood an older version of Laura. Her hair wasn’t as pale, but it had been brushed to a glossy shine. The woman’s smile was forced, as if she wasn’t happy to see that her daughter had let a stranger into their home while she had been away. Behind her, just beyond the porch, stood a young boy of about ten years, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and a Utah Jazz team jacket that had obviously been handed down. His smile was more grimace than delight. 

“Laura, honey,” the woman said. ”Open the door.”

Laura paused for a brief second. The woman stepped aside to avoid the opening door. In a flash, Moroni hurled himself through the screen toward the boy, his aim directly for the child’s throat. The boy swung at the dog and tossed him effortlessly to the ground. The dog yelped but rose to attack again. The boy kicked the dog and sent it across the yard.

“Laura? Open the door and let me in, sweetheart.”

“Back off, bitch!” Jane said and stepped forward. She put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t open the door, Laura.”

Laura turned around and frowned at the sight of Jane’s ashen coloring. The V above her blue eyes deepened before she faced the door again.

“Honey,” the woman continued. “Why don’t you come outside instead?”

“No, mother,” Laura said quietly. “I can’t.”

A high-pitched ‘swoosh’ pierced the silence of the back yard. The woman searched for the source as the boy exploded into dust.

She returned her attention to Laura. “Don’t you want to be with us for all eternity? With me and your brothers and sister?”

“And daddy?” Laura asked, a tremor in her whisper.

“Dad—“ the woman said, but before she could finish her thought, she exploded into a cloud of dust.

When the dust cleared, Wesley stood on the step, a piece of the picket fence in his right hand.

 

~*~

 

“Come in.”

Wesley crossed the threshold into a bedroom out of a Victorian restoration guide: thin, lace curtains; an ivory bedspread embroidered with splashes of pale pink roses; a dresser and vanity that had been loving restored with gold trim and distressed, ivory paint. On the bench of a bay window, Laura sat, staring into the backyard. She was bundled up in a fuzzy pink bathrobe, her matching slippers on the floor beneath the window.

That in and of itself was an improvement. After Wesley had dusted the mockery of her family, Laura had fallen to the ground, her chest heaving with noiseless sobs. Wesley had prepared himself for hysteria, for wailing or screaming, but not quiet, controlled sobbing. Jane had come to Laura’s side, spoken softly to her, urging her to get up, to no avail. Keziah, who had raced around from the front yard, had immediately dropped to Laura’s side and hugged her tightly, silently rocking her while she’d wept.

In the morning, he had found that Jane had swept up whatever ashes she could gather to put them into an antique candy jar. Daylight had brought no more visitations, yet they all remained tensely alert, staring across the farm toward the horizon.

 “I’m sorry,” Laura said softly. Tears spilled over her eyelids, ran down her cheeks.

Wesley debated whether to dash to the window seat or remain authoritatively detached. “You’re sorry? Whatever for?”

“I wanted to let my—,” Laura paused and chewed on her upper lip. “I wanted to let that thing inside. She looked and sounded just—. No. Mommy always called Daddy 'Father'.”

Wesley moved inside the room, to the window and pulled her into a gentle hug. Something his ex-colleagues on the Council would, no doubt, condemn as too sentimental.

He hugged her briefly then planted an awkward kiss on the crown of her head. “You wanted it to be her. Anyone with a heart would have, Laura. You’ve never encountered a vampire before, you had no idea what to expect.”

“Why did they do that? I mean—“

“I doubt it was premeditated, if that’s what you’re thinking. I think your family was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. What happened bears no witness to anything other than evil’s fortuity.”

“Have you lost anyone? Like that?”

Wesley stared out into the yard. With a sigh, he finally answered, “None to vampires. There are other dangers that can take those we love from us. And most demons are not intent upon annihilating humanity.”

“Seriously?”

He thought of Cordelia and smiled. “I would hazard to say that some of those we could call demons are much closer to angels. The battle has many shades of grey and you and Keziah will be called to discern between those shades and decide when the grey is too dark. That’s your calling in life."

 “Bother Ludlum, our bishop, he’s dead now, told my mom and dad that he had a vision,” she said respectfully, no hint of derision or disdain in her voice. “He said that I and a friend, I guess he means Kezzy, would push back nightfall and close a dark against darkness.”

“Kezzy?” Wesley asked, a chuckle threatening to escape.

“Well, Keziah is so … old, you know?”

Wesley nodded. “Absolutely archaic.”

Laura looked out the window again. “Jane says she’s also called ‘Cherry’ but wouldn’t tell me how she got that nickname.” She turned to Wesley. “Do you know? Does she eat a lot of cherries? Because—“

He put up a hand and shook his head, not willing to share his knowledge with her. "Honestly, she never did explain that to me.”

“Oh.”

“We need to leave for Provo, Laura.”

“Brother Ludlum said we would.”

“He sounds like a fascinating man.”

“He was,” she agreed. “I’ll make some lunch and then we should pack.”

“Jane made lunch.” At Laura’s expression of disbelief, the chuckle finally escaped. “Sandwiches, but they were entirely edible. Jane would like to have a memorial for your family. If that’s all right, of course.”

Laura peered outside as passing clouds cast shadows on the green lawn. “That’s very kind.”

“She has her moments,” Wesley agreed and stood. “And with that, I shall leave to fashion a marker, while you eat something. Oh, and Keziah’s very concerned. Perhaps you could allay her fears while you’re at it.”

“She told me how she lost a foster mother to vampires and how she had to kill her. That helped.”

Wesley frowned as he neared the bedroom door. He hid his reaction as he turned back to his charge. “I’m certain it did. There should be hot water, so maybe you should take advantage of that before the other two.”

He wandered down the stairs to find Keziah staring blankly out the back door. “So, you lost a foster parent to vampires?”

“Why the hell did — ” she said and faced him, the frown on her face deeply wrinkling her youthful features. “Oh, yeah, well, I thought it would help if she thought I’d hadda done the same thing.”

Wesley shook his head but smiled. “I understand your intent, Kezi— Kezzy —  but I think in the future honesty would be best.”

Keziah shrugged. “Yeah, well, she stopped crying.”

“That she did,” he said. “What are you looking for?”

“Dunno. Something. Things feel kinda weird, like something important is missing.”

“Perhaps you can keep an eye out while making a survey of the truck’s contents so we can replenish our provisions? After Laura eats and showers, we’ll lay the ashes to rest. It’ll be late, so perhaps we should plan to make a move at dawn.”

“Okay, Chief.”

Wesley turned, his finger raised to make a point, but Keziah had already torn out of the kitchen. With a resigned groan, he left for the barn, scanning the hedgerows and tree lines for any unnatural activity. Inside the barn, he briefly worried about the animals, but cast mundane concerns aside as he found the tools he needed and the planks of wood Laura’s father had saved for mending the property.

Determined, he shaped a pair of grave markers, then turned his attention to replacing the picket he “borrowed” the night before. Searching for white paint, he heard a rustling outside the barn. Grabbing the unfinished piece of wood, he stealthily moved toward the back door.

Jane pushed the door open, missing Wesley’s face by a mere inch. He jumped back, as she burst inside.

“Oh, hey, Chief.” She glanced at his hand. “It’s daylight. Me, walking in daylight. Healthy coloring all over, too.”

Wesley tossed the plank on to nearby bale of hay. “Yes, my mistake.”

Jane sneered playfully at the taunt. “Laura okay the sorta service?”

He nodded. “She’s very grateful.”

“Good,” Jane cast a glance behind her. “I don’t want to get anyone worked up but I need you.”

“For?”

“Sexual release.” At his look — a mixture of horror and shock — she laughed. “Such a prude. Just go to the far part of the garden, where the younger Douglas fir trees are. I’ll meet you there.”

With no further explanation, she dashed out of the barn toward the truck, leaving Wesley to assess what possible emergency could have arisen. The sun was just beginning its afternoon descent and he had seen no signs of preternatural activity on any of his wanderings around the property. Nevertheless, he grabbed an awl and an axe and made his way to the evergreens.

Jane quickly joined him, the first aid kit under her arm. “What’s the axe for, Chief?”

“For whatever dragged me out here. Or to fend off unwanted advances. Take your pick.”

“Twit,” she tetched and forced her way through the young trees. He saw her push aside some brush and kneel beside a wounded Moroni, his tongue hanging limply out of his mouth, his tail wagging affectionately.

“Dear God,” Wesley said and dropped beside her. “How did he survive that?”

“Determination, loyalty and a dash of canine stupidity, I suppose. As far as I can tell, he’s got some bruising, maybe a broken rib. I doubt anything life-threatening as he’s too perky.”

“You’re a vet now?”

“Farm girl, Chief. Six dogs over the years. Hand me the bandages, I’ll wrap him up best I can.”

Wesley handed her two packages of gauze bandaging and waited with clips and tape. “We’ll have to make room for him,” Wesley said quietly. He handed her the clips. “Secure him in the back of the truck. He shouldn’t bounce around. Open the windows, so we can check on him as needed.”

“You sold me. You can look now. All the dangly bits are covered,” she announced, standing up while the dog watched keenly. Satisfied with her handiwork, she turned to Wesley. “Big Chief He-man can shlep the guardian angel inside to the girls. I need a beer before we do this move on the forces of this month's apocalyptic special.”

“Need I remind you we’re on a farm owned by a Mormon family?” he scoffed.

She stared at him, fists planted firmly on her hips. ”I am a Marine trained at Beaufort and Camp LeJeune. Where I go, beer follows. See ya at the service, Chief."

"You aren't going to survive in a dry state, Jane."

"Well, then, it's a good thing I hit a drive-thru before we left the Buckeye State, ain't it?"

 

~*~

 

Keziah waltzed across the room to the oak dining table where the maps were spread out. Laura chose to ignore the dictated routine and went to sit beside Moroni who sat guard from an ottoman in front of a picture window.

“Where’s Jane?” Wesley asked, while he watched Keziah’s finger trace their patrol route. After marking a building with a large X, she strode out of the room.

“She dropped us off then went to hit a couple of stores,” Laura answered nonchalantly. “We need food stuffs.”

Wesley sighed and started to complain, but Keziah jumped in from the kitchen. “She said she’d be back way before dusk,” she screamed. “Which gives her about fifteen more. Where’s the godda— the peanut butter?”

“Do not shout, child. Look in the cupboard to the left of the stove.” He heard the cupboard open and slam. “Tell me what you found, please.”

“Deseret Towers was just like you said,” Laura informed him. “A nest.”

“Yeah,” Keziah agreed, entering the room and handing Laura a peanut butter sandwich. “They were lying around like they were dead drunk. Mighta had an orgy before they nodded off.”

“Jane fire bombed them,” Laura said and broke off a corner of her sandwich for Moroni. “We watched them burn.”

“Humans?” Wesley asked quietly.

“Didn’t see any. Then we continued on a long ways, past—“

“The Joseph Smith Building,” Laura provided.

“Yeah, Joe’s place and scouted some houses. Nada.”

“Mark it on the map as well, please. We should start moving north toward Mount Timpanogos,” Wesley said and went to the window. Below him, Jane parked the car in the spot below the office and got out of the car. She noticed the sentinels and waved before she opened the back door and brought out some plastic bags and a six-pack.

Wesley absently patted Moroni in an attempt to quiet the persistent growling and watched the mountains ahead as they grew dark with the encroaching sunset. They had been in Provo for three days — long enough for the Council to catch up with them if they had wanted to, worry number one — and had set themselves up in an abandoned apartment complex — worry number two, a city of abandoned buildings. Almost immediately they had begun scouting for remaining humans, finding instead packs of vampires — worry three — who seemed to be in a territorial war with other, itinerant demons. What he had seen thus far was minor compared to Ohio; it wasn’t volcanic, but it slowly rumbled and occasionally spewed out inhabitants from its fiery under-belly.

He had decided to conduct daily recon missions: look for humans among the rubble while eradicating demonic threats. Willing people would be relocated to the complex behind them so Jane could organize them into a militia. So far, they had cleansed far more than they had rescued.

“What’cha looking for?” she asked, handing him a cup of coffee she had reheated. “Expecting company?”

“Actually, yes I am,” he answered.

“Hey, Chief?” Keziah called from the table. “When we’re done here, can we go check on Mon and the girls?”

Jane glanced at Wesley expectantly. No matter how many times he’d explained the situation with the Council, neither Slayer was willing to accept that his role in their future would soon be over.

“That’s not in my hands. It’s for the Council to decide, however, I’m af—”

Jane’s elbow made pointed contact with his ribs. When he turned and glared at her, she shook her head.

“Cookies!” Laura screeched. “Jane got Oreos! And Pecan Sandies! Oh, wow, HoHos! Little Debbies! ”

“Oh, joy and nutrition,” Wesley mumbled then muttered to Jane. “They have to face reality.”

“Reality?” Jane pointed outside. “Where Laura once dreamed of going to college and finding her one and only there’s a fucking hole filled with bloodsuckers. Instead of cars and pottery, Ohio spits out dragons that gobble up people like chicken McNuggets. Kill this reality, let them make a new one.”

 “That’s not how the Council works with Slayers.”

“Look, I don’t give a rat’s penis about destiny, Councils or any other Slayers. It’s just,” she paused for a moment and drew the curtains closed. “It’s just that these two trust you to do what’s best for them. Fuck me blind if I know why, but don’t you dare abuse that trust. If you’re going to dump them on a bunch of strangers and take off, you better tell them before I do.”

She walked away from the conversation demanding cinnamon graham crackers. From the ottoman, Moroni let out another low growl. Wesley pulled the curtain aside a fraction and scanned the street. It had been long enough, they had been active enough, that even Harmony in her early vapid days would have sniffed them out by now.  In the distance, both north- and southbound, he saw headlights. He dropped the curtain then glanced at Jane. She nodded.

“Okay maggots,” Jane barked. “Sun has set. We need a perimeter established. In pairs: a Slayer with a-not. I’ll go on the roof with—“

“Me! Take me!” Keziah yelped and grabbed a handful of Oreos.

Jane narrowed her eyes menacingly. “Oh, fine. But touch the Little Debbies and you die.”

“Laura, stay inside,” Wesley ordered softly. He picked up a pair of stakes from the pile on the couch near the window.

“No,” she snapped. “I want to go with you. I can do this.”

“I have no doubt you can,” he replied but kept his voice quiet and even. He dropped the stakes into his jacket pocket and began to put his coat on. “However, if this is not who I believe it is, I need you hidden. The rumor mill will know I’ve found one Slayer.”

“So, I stay behind in—“

“Case there’s trouble. Yes.” Wesley tilted his head toward the back rooms. “Barricade yourself as we discussed.” He nodded to the other two. “Vampires have excellent night vision, but an abundance of brains among the enemy does not appear to be one of our problems. Let’s take fifteen minutes to secure the immediate area. Agreed?”

Settling on a rifle they’d brought from Ohio, Jane winked to Laura. Laura headed toward the back, snapping her fingers for the still growling Moroni to follow. When the bedroom door closed behind the two of them, Jane turned to see Keziah raise a crossbow at the front door.

Wesley nodded and watched Jane position herself in the kitchen, just out of the line of vision of anyone entering. Wesley pulled the curtain aside just enough to see a car parked next to the truck. Hurriedly, he grabbed a nearby crossbow and took one step toward the door.

Just as the door handle turned. When the door opened wide enough, Keziah let an arrow fly.

“Hey! Watch it, moron!”

To Keziah’s astonishment, Wesley broke into a wide smirk. Dumbfounded, she let the bow drop to her side. Jane stepped out of the kitchen, rifle aimed at the door.

“Your Slayer instincts serve you well,” Wesley said with a hint of mirth. “Keziah, Jane, meet Spike.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

_“We need you for two more tasks.”_

_“No, Cordelia. I’ve done my time. Everything the Powers asked of me, and more. Give me my due.”_

_“You’re my champion: the only one who can be trusted with these.”_

_“Pardon the expression, but bollocks. Whatever it is, the answer remains no. Find someone else.”_

_“There is no one else I can ask … in the middle of that apocalypse are two girls, Slayers, who need you to find them…"_

 

Jane emerged from the kitchen, rifle butt nestled against her shoulder. Suspiciously, she edged toward Keziah.

"Oi, tell the brat to put the crossbow down," Spike said. Despite the threat, he sauntered into the apartment, eyebrow raised in a challenge.

"She's simply doing as she's been trained," Wesley answered, the brilliant smile gone, the serious, authoritative mask back in place.

When he turned to face Keziah, however, she saw the corner of his mouth twitch again, this time into the subtle smile she knew as approval. The one she tried to finagle out of him at least once a day.

"And quite well, I would venture to add. You may give your arm a rest, Keziah."

With her daily quota of validation secured, she grinned. "Thanks, Chief," she said. "Can I go get Laura?"

While she waited for his go-ahead, a blur of black entered the room and grabbed Wesley. Keziah whipped her crossbow up to her shoulder again.

"Wes!" Angel said, embracing him in a fierce hug. "We thought you were dead, but—"

"Angel," Wesley wheezed. "Must. Breathe."

"Oh, right," Angel said sheepishly. He released Wesley and took a step back. 

"I felt your meager life force ebb," Illyria  said , haunted blue eyes surveying the women, who aimed their weapons at her. She jerked her head back around to face Wesley. "I lied to you."

"Yes, you did. I was," Wesley began. He turned to Keziah. "Would you be so obliging as to inform Laura that our callers are innocuous, but to control Moroni.

"The who's it what?" Keziah asked.

Jane whispered something into her ear. She giggled then shrugged and tossed her crossbow onto the couch before she left. Jane dropped onto the couch and placed her rifle on the ground at her feet. Looking up, she noticed the attention and returned Spike's stare.

"So, you were dead," Spike repeated, breaking eye contact. "You one of us now?"

"Hardly," Wesley said with a snort. "And you jolly well can tell that. I was brought back—"

"Brought back by who?" Angel asked. Next to him, Illyria twitched in agitation.

"Cordelia arranged it."

"That is not possible," Illyria said. "I who was a God-king could not reanimate your corpse—"

"Shock, impatience, relief and jealousy in one day. Will wonders never cease?" Spike asked.

"Cordelia sent you back?" Angel asked quietly.

"Yes," Wesley responded in an equally hushed tone. "I've two tasks. Once  completed, I've the chance to be reun—"

Moroni burst into the room, snarling. Coming to an abrupt halt by Wesley's side, he bared his teeth at the guests.

"Sorry, Chief," Laura said. She tried to drag Moroni away by the collar, but he refused to budge. Wesley put a hand on the dog's head, quieting him.

 "This is Laura, our other Slayer and her dog. Moroni has an intense dislike of vampires," Wesley explained. "However, since he hasn't recovered from the last attack, perhaps we should take our discussion outside?"

"No way!" Keziah screeched. "Jane! Not fair!"

"Pardon me?" Wesley asked.

"We have a bet," Jane casually explained. "Fifty on which one you've bonked."

"Bonked?" Laura repeated.

"Oh, this will be grand," Spike said and flounced on the couch next to Jane. He eyed her lasciviously. "I can guarantee you, 'tweren't me. I like mine petite and blond."

"I like mine tall and solidly built," Jane replied. She nodded toward the dog, which stood with its teeth still bared. "And with a heartbeat. Moroni says you're a threat."

"Not I," Spike said. "I've a soul."

"Bully for you."

"Wait a minute. How do you get it up if you're dead?" Keziah asked, suddenly interested. "I mean, there's no blood in the dick, right? Is there a demonic Viagra or a pump or do you rely on, you know, friction?"

"I'd show you, pet, but—"

"I ain't your pet."

"Is bonking what I think it is?" Laura asked.

Wesley pinched the bridge of his nose and rolled his eyes behind closed lids . "There are times when I go about blissfully unaware of the fact that the fate of the world rests on the shoulders of teenagers. And then." He sighed. "And then, there's tonight."

"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose," Angel provided.

"Exactly."

"Why don't you send the bints on patrol," Spike suggested. "Or are your Slayers too good for partolling?"

"The Chief has us do reconnaissance during the day," Laura said. "When survivors will show up and we can help them."

"So we’re Girl Guides, now?"

Illyria, who had stood by silently, unsure of the myriad emotions coursing through her shell, snapped, "It is our obligation to remove the pestilence that festers in this world."

"Which pestilence is that, Blue? Human or demon?"

"I fail to see the difference," Illyria retorted.

 Jane jerked her head toward the door. When Wesley nodded, she tossed him the rifle. With a point outside, Wesley led Angel outdoors, away from the bickering. They walked down the sidewalk, toward the back of the complex.

"Cordelia's —"

"Fine, Angel. She's as radiant as ever."

Angel nodded. His head lifted at a distant noise, but he quickly returned his concentration to the pavement under his feet.

"Bob said you wanted to meet us here. Couldn't understand why until we saw the damage along the Wasatch."

"This is small change. You should see Ohio," Wesley said. "Tafnair, Klaktun and Sfornag demons and ex-Wolfram and Hart employees."

Angel let out a low whistle. "That's how it was after you—" He paused.

"After I died. I'm sorry I wasn't able to be of assistance."

Angel frowned but ignored the remark. "Watcher's Council doing anything about the situation in Ohio?"

"Not that I'm aware. It took me a week to make contact with the Council. When I did speak to my father he showed no interest in the plight of the survivors there. Or anywhere. There are scattered groups of humans across the US eking out a haphazard defense, struggling against an apoc—"

Angel stopped and grabbed Wesley's arm. "Wesley," he said. "You said two tasks. Is one of them to lobby single-handedly on behalf of all humans?"

"No. No, of course not," Wesley said.

"Then tell me what your two tasks are. Let me help. Isn't that why you and Bob worked out that elaborate ruse?"

Wesley smiled. "He told you?"

"No, Margaret did. Council should get here tomorrow, by the way."

Wesley sighed. "Sunday. How fitting."

"Wes."

"Yes. The first of the two tasks was to find the Slayers who had managed to elude the Council during an earlier sweep." He shook his head. "I'm not sure how Laura escaped their grasps, she sees this as her destiny. But Keziah. Actually, they were looking for a "Cherry" and I assume either she didn't trust them or curb crawling wasn't on the agenda."

Angel thought about casual reference to Keziah's background. "She trusts you."

"Jane trusts me. That made the difference."

"So, you and Jane?"

"Good God, no! "

"Okay, you found them. Now what?"

"I shall be forced to relinquish their care in order that they may be properly trained." He stopped at Angel's chuckle. "What?"

"Your wording." Angel bit back another snicker and shook his head. "Nothing. If you expect to hand them over to the Council, why the subterfuge?"

Wesley sighed. "Cordelia said I needed to find both. The Council, or rather, my father, felt I should leave that responsibility to them. I, on the other hand, couldn't abandon my duty to Laura." He noticed Angel's furrowed brow. "When I've finished with the two tasks, I've the chance to be reunited with Fred."

"Ah," Angel nodded. "Now, I understand. What exactly did Cordy say about the girls?"

Wesley looked toward Mount Timpanogos, the sleeping princess.

_“Wes, down there, in the middle of that apocalypse are two girls, Slayers, who need you to find them, train them and take—”_

She never did finish her statement, Wesley realized.

Angel smiled softly. He spoke before Wes could answer. "What’s the other task?"

Wesley turned and appeared suddenly burdened. "The prophecy."

"What? Shanshu?" Angel waved his hand in the air. "I signed that away."

"Yes, so I've been informed," Wesley said with a nod. "But your signature has been declared invalid, fraudulent, in fact. Cordelia has asked me to tell you that once this series of apocalyptic battles have concluded, you will achieve your Shanshu."

"Spike has a soul too, Wesley."

"We know Angel."

"And does he get this speech—" Angel stopped short. "I see."

"I'm terribly sorry. His demise will be heroic, I'm told. However, considering the magnitude predicted for the future battles, there's no guarantee that any of us will survive—"

"Us?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said 'us'."

Wesley thought for a moment then shrugged. "Force of habit."

 

~*~

 

_"It's pretty here. The snow is so close," she said softly, joining him at the picture window. "Well, when you can see things. Kinda dark now."_

_Wesley sighed, the effort of exhalation constricting his chest. "I suspect you saw."_

_Cordelia linked her arm through his. "Saw what?"_

_"Don't play innocent. It isn't you. Not after all you've seen, suffered."_

_"Fine. He took it well," she conceded._

_Wesley tugged her closer. "I thought he was terribly blasé about it all. No arguments, no questions, no joy, not even that grin he gave us. Remember?" He felt her nod, sensed the warmth of the memory envelope them both. "I had rather hoped to see that look again. Instead, we finished the conversation and headed back to the office."_

_"If it's any help, the upcoming battles—"_

_Wesley withdrew his arm and pulled away from her. "Battles? Plural? For God's sake, this isn't–"He waved his hand in aimless circles._

_Cordelia pursed her lips and shrugged. "Nope." She waited for the reality to sink in. "Anywaayyyy, as I was saying, because even when I'm a Higher Power—"_

_"Junior Higher Power."_

_She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. You keep interrupting me. The upcoming battles will give them both time to adjust and finish whatever business they have." She watched while he returned to the window. "You know. Like, **that** business."_

_"Eventually they shall tire of you playing games with them."_

_"These are hardly games," she replied softly._

_"This is wearing, Cordelia," he said._

_"What is?" she asked, raising one of her perfectly arched eyebrows._

_"I've done my two tasks. I'm tired. This is over."_

_"No."_

_"No what?"_

_"No, period. You've done one of the tasks: you told Angel. You're not tired, you're emotionally invested and you don't want to be. And this is har—"_

_"I have done **exactly** what you brought me back to do," he said through clenched teeth._

_"There you go, interrupting again. Wesley, you found the girls, protected them, started—"_

_"And today the Council arrives."_

_"Oh. My. God! Even resurrected you are so frustrating!" Cordelia screamed, her fingers curved into claws. She took a deep breath and tugged on her dress, then smoothed the creases. "Okay. I am calm.  I am centered. I am above anger."_

_"So very glad to see that."_

_"Wes, admit it. You're worried about those two. You're wondering who their Watcher will be. Will he be good enough? Will he care about them, look after them?"_

_"Or perhaps he'll fail miserably as I did."_

_"So?" she asked with a nonchalant shrug. "What's it to you? Why would you even care once you've dumped them on a bunch of strangers?"_

_Wesley sat in a nearby chair. He put his head in his hands. "You sound like the girls."_

_Cordelia knelt on the ground before him. She waited quietly until he finally met her gaze. "They say what you think. Face it, you're worried you'll deliver them into the care of the wrong person. Someone who'll belittle when he should encourage, push away when he should comfort. I'm here now to tell you that you'll know who their Watcher should be when you see him. You might not want to accept it, but you'll know. Don’t give them to anyone else."_

_She looked off into the distance and smiled gently. When she faced him again, she said, "Trust that we know what we're doing."_

_He nodded. "I should go now."_

 

"Chief," she said, her hushed tones rising a notch.

"Mmmfffg," Wesley replied. "Go away. I'm tired." He folded his pillow in half and buried his face.

"Come on, chief," Keziah repeated. She poked him in the arm. "Wake up, please, Wesley."

He turned his head and slowly opened one eye. Keziah was in the same clothes she'd worn the day before — a first for her. Her corkscrew curls were out of the headband she'd pulled on before patrolling and fell in disarray just below her shoulder. Her eyes, he noticed, were underscored by dark circles.

Wesley rolled over and covered his eyes with an arm. "You need sleep. Tell me later."

"That's just it." She moved to the window and drew open the curtain.

"It, what?" He turned to look out the window. No light entered from the moonless sky, just pitch black emptiness. "For God's sake, child. Can't whatever it is wait until morning?"

Keziah turned around, her eyes wide with fear. "It **is** morning. Sunrise was supposed to be over two hours ago."

She watched from the window while he bolted upright, allowing the sheet to fall away when he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He took note of her lack of reaction but drew the sheet up to cover himself.

"I do need to get dressed," he reminded her.

"This is how Ohio started, Wesley," she said hoarsely.

Now fully awake, he saw for the first time, the pallor of her skin. Her wide eyes, the tightness of her lips, the shallowness of her breathing. He didn't have time to analyze the situation fully, but personal experience had taught him to recognize a plunge in self-confidence when he saw one.

"Rest assured, Keziah, this is not Ohio." Sensing that she was frozen in her spot, unable to leave the room, he resigned himself to an observer while he dressed. "It isn't time for another apocalypse."

Jane walked in and surveyed the scene. She leaned against the dresser and crossed her arms.

"Will someone, please, find me clothing," he requested. "Something clean."

"I heard what you said." Jane yanked open a drawer. "Who says you get to choose when these things happen?"

"I just know that this isn't the same." He caught the jeans before they flew into his face. After a second, cursory glance at the two women, he put his feet through the pant legs then stood to pull them up. He frowned at Jane's sudden waggle of her eyebrow. "You'll have to trust that I know what I'm doing."

"We're here, aren't we?" Jane asked.

"Indeed you are," Wesley agreed. He looked at Keziah still transfixed by the window. "Where's Laura?"

"Out here," he heard beyond the door. "You were, um, you know—"

Keeping an eye on Keziah, Wesley held out a hand and caught the T-shirt Jane tossed. "Get the maps out and spread them out on the table, Laura. This is—" He turned around to see Spike leaning against the doorframe.

"Why the bloody hell do I have an audience?" Wesley snapped.

Spike smirked. "Enjoying the spectacle, mate. And when you've finished entertaining the troops, we need to get going." He turned and left the doorway. Jane cast a quick peek in Keziah's direction then followed Spike.

"Go where?" Keziah asked. Reluctantly, she moved past Wesley's outstretched arm and down the corridor.

"To find out what's happening, Keziah." Wesley put an arm on her shoulder and moved to walk beside her. "And put an immediate stop to it. Just as you did the dragon." He pulled her to a halt.

"I know it brings up terrifying memories, and someday you'll tell me what happened, but you can do this, Keziah. You and Laura are an efficient team: what ever she lacks, you have and vice versa. Together you will do great things. Do you understand?"

Keziah nodded, but squeezed her lips together. Wesley turned her to face him.

Cupping her cheeks, he said, "While you may doubt yourself, know that I have full confidence in both your abilities and your choices." He nodded once then nudged her into the room.

In the makeshift office, Laura had unrolled a series of maps. Laura had, Wesley noticed, showered, changed clothes and displayed a refreshing amount of poise. She was looking over the maps studiously, discussing something with Angel, pointing as she made a comment. A saturnine Illyria stood in the corner by the front door, acting as both sentinel and observer. Spike paced in front of the picture window, glimpsing occasionally at Jane who sat on the couch, chewing on the inside of her mouth, her leg bouncing up and down as she impatiently waited for directions.

"We need to know who is creating this artificial scenario," Wesley announced. "Once we do, we can put a stop to it and get on with life."

"It could be as the kid says," Spike replied.

"No. It is not." Wesley walked over to the maps, stopping to stand between Angel and Laura. "I can assure you it's not apocalyptic." He looked up. "Yet. What groups need to work at night?"

Spike simply stared at him. "Resurrection eat your brain cells?"

"Your human dependence upon sunlight is irrelevant and pathetic," Illyria said.

"Someone or some ones created this situation," Wesley replied. "I suspect they've done so to distract other demons and imitate apocalyptic circumstances. However, I must admit that the lack of a human population makes an apocalypse rather superficial."

"And mundane." Illyria added.

"The Nokhnoi," Angel said suddenly. He walked around the table and went to stand between Illyria and the rest of the room. "They need cataclysmic events to open their dimension."

Wesley snapped his fingers and pointed toward a stack of books by the corner of the sofa. "Exactly! Keziah hand me the book called _Abnoctiae_. It's—"

"Got it!" she said and jumped up from the couch, clutching a worn, red-leather bound book.

With a smile, Wesley took it from her hands and began to rifle through the pages.

"Cataclysmic?" Laura repeated. "You mean more than night at eight a.m.?"

"A lot more," Angel answered. "These portals must be forced. The events for such an opening have to be massive."

"Earth shattering?" Laura asked.

Angel nodded. "Why?"

Wesley stopped and placed the book on the maps. Everyone stared at Laura expectantly.

Laura looked around the room, searching out Keziah for reassurance. Once she found her, Laura took a deep breath and faced Wesley.

"We're sitting right on top of the Wasatch Fault."

 

~*~

 

Jane checked her watch again before replacing the binoculars to scan the horizon. They had debated strategy well into the afternoon, the tension broken occasionally by bursts of lightning to the north and Spike's attempt to convince Jane of his impending heroic demise. Only Illyria had agreed with her Dalek approach.  In the end, Wesley's creation of a powder that would incapacitate the Nokhnoi, thus allowing the god-king-whatever to destroy the orb won the debate. Instead, Jane mused, Wesley's adoring fangirls agreed unreservedly and rushed all but screaming to attack something.

She sniggered to herself at the memories of Wesley's dismayed reaction to their enthusiasm, and Angel's smug grin at his friend's discomfort. The group had set off with the strategy, the powder and a contingency plan, insisted upon by her, should something go wrong. They'd been gone for two hours, and should have reached the target area by now.

"Any sign?"  Wesley called from the kitchen. He emerged with two mugs of coffee.

"No. Shouldn't we see something different already?"

He handed her one of the mugs. "Not necessarily. Stealth is more important than anything else. 'The leader must be separated from the orb at a distance of three furlongs before the power of the orb can be diminished'," he quoted then sipped the coffee. "As long as there's still the cover of darkness, the girls are fine."

"Still don't see why they can't just exterminate the fuckers."

"The Nokhnoi are psychically linked to the orb for its protection once the spell has been initiated. That link cannot be broken by death, rather only by destruction of the orb. The orb is protected by the clan. Vicious circle."

"A catch-22.  If Twitch—"

Wesley's brows furrowed. "Twitch?"

"The girls renamed the blue broad 'Twitch'. "

"They've called Illyria that?" he asked with an involuntary snort.

"Oh, yeah. She called them 'writhing piles of useless molecules.' It was a hoot. Spike's been dubbed 'Helmet Head' and Angel, 'Chuckles.'"

"They're nothing if not entertaining," Wesley replied. He smiled as he visualized his father's disdain and indignation to whatever nickname they would invent for him.

Joining Jane at the window, Wesley held out his hand for the binoculars. After a brief scan south, he turned the glasses north, toward the remains of Provo Temple, where intermittent flashes of incandescent light had led them. He had hoped to send Laura to visit the Temple's ruins during daylight, to give her an opportunity to pray or meditate, whichever she chose to do, but circumstances had dispatched her there for other reasons.

A flash of yellow sent his gaze quickly eastward, but it was gone before he could satisfy his curiosity. Returning to his surveillance, he cursed the coffee Jane had miraculously procured, since it seemed to be affecting his nerves. His heart palpitated at the slightest provocation; his breathing became erratic; his chest felt like he was about to have a heart attack.  He'd have to cut back on the sludge and regain bodily control before his father arrived with the Council.

"Anyway, if 'Twitch' manages to use those überstrong god-like muscles to break an obsidian basketball, and the guys kill lots of demons, everything will be hunky dory."

"Succinctly put, Jane. The lack of human intervention has made this lot of demons cocky, overconfident and inattentive."

"So how come, if it all sounds so effing easy, I feel like throwing up?"

"I would assume for the same reason I'm also jittery: a combination of the lethal coffee and anticipation."

Behind his back, Jane smiled. "Riiight. You keep telling yourself that, Chief," she mumbled then more loudly added, "By the way, the girls have come to a decision. Thought I should warn you."

"A decision? Concerning?" Wesley asked as a flash erupted from the foothills.

"This Council business. They've decided that they'll go with anybody you say so long as they get to stay together."

"And if the Council deems otherwise?" he asked, although he could already hear Keziah's colorful answer.

"Then the Council can go to Hell. It's off I-77, due south of Lake Eire. For the record, I agree with them and I think you do, too."

"We'll deal with that—" A single burst of green shot upward and disappeared into the clouds.

"What does that mean?" Jane asked.

"It means they've begun the final stage of the opening. The leader should have begun—"

A series of lightning bolts — white, green and blue — sparked in all directions. Within seconds, shock waves rocked the building.

"And that?" Jane asked.

Wesley turned to her, one eyebrow arched and a knowing grin spreading across his face. "That, Jane, means the leader has been separated from the orb. And any moment now the—"

"Darkness'll start to fade? Things will go back to normal?"

"Exactly."

Jane pointed at the window. "Like that?"

Wesley turned back to the window to see a ribbon of cerulean swelling between two receding blankets of ebony.

"'You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone'," Jane sang.

"I do hope the sun sets soon," Wesley said.

"Man, you are the walking personification of gloom."

"It'll make things easier." He paused then smiled brightly. "For Helmet Head and Chuckles."

Jane checked her watch. "Sun should set in thirty. Since they didn’t take the car, it'll take them that long for them to get back. I'll start dinner."

"Fine," Wesley said. "Actually, I think I'll take a shower before the hot water fiends return."

"Thank God," Jane retorted. "You were starting to ripen."

One of the benefits of living in a deserted town, sharing amenities with demons that appreciated the conveniences of the twenty-first century was electricity without bills.  In the weeks since he had been revivified, Wesley hadn't been able to wash without the water turning bitter cold. Fifteen minutes into his shower, he recognized the seedlings of guilt but squashed them before they took root and blossomed. He emerged guilt-free, selfishly delighting in the prune-like wrinkles. After wiping down the mirror, he examined the face staring back at him: crows' feet that were once faint had deepened; odd strands of grey peppered his hair, which was in desperate need of a trim. Upon scrutiny of the stubble on his face, he decided that it was better he shave it off than admit his age.

"Life is making me old," he muttered to his reflection. The image nodded in agreement; it was probably the first argument Wesley had won since he'd arrived in Columbus. And most likely the last.

He whipped off the towel, hung it up to dry and dressed. After granting his co-conspirator a final glance, he gathered up his laundry and left the bathroom.

"'Bout time. Hope you got everything out of your system," Jane said when he entered the kitchen on his way to the laundry room. "We'll have spaghetti and meatballs. No wine, but there's beer."

Wesley grinned at the sight of the ex-Marine in a frilly, gingham apron. "Beer's fine. I think I'll wait outside."

"Worry wart," Jane mumbled as he left the room. "Oh, it's just the coffee," she mocked under her breath.

Wesley grabbed Keziah's favorite crossbow and jogged downstairs. He made a preliminary sweep of the parking lot, then chose his spot: on the hood of the truck, under the dark lamppost across the parking lot from the office building. He kept his attention northward, concentrating on figures emerging from the abandoned apartment complex across the street.

While waiting, he worked out what he would say to the Council when they arrived. He would ensure they take into consideration the girls' desire to remain a team, to stay together; not that the Council would care about a Slayer-in-training's wishes. He'd make certain they knew of Laura's recent loss: of Keziah's smart-mouth mask of bravado. The assigned Watcher would surely consider all this when training the girls.

He smiled as he realized how much Keziah and Faith would have in common. If she ever got the chance to meet Faith, he realized. With all the Slayers under the Council's aegis, a chameleon like Keziah could easily fly under the radar, just as she had when they had first searched for her. They'd have to be told of Laura's strong religious beliefs, which might garner interesting discussions. He wondered if Willow was working with the Council or if she had moved on.

Wesley slid off the vehicle when he saw silhouettes emerge from between the buildings.  He stifled a laugh as Illyria wrenched to answer something Laura said. Keziah punched Spike in the arm, which earned her a slap on the back of the head. Angel walked stoically in the middle of the troop.

"Spot on," Wesley said to himself.

"We kicked demon ass!" Keziah screamed when she saw him. She skipped across the street and granted him a hug. "You should have seen Laura! She was fucking awesome!"

He pulled away and looked down at his khaki shirt, now smeared with black. With a smirk, he said, "I had just showered, you know."

"Yeah, well, tough shit, huh?" Keziah answered with a crooked grin. She held up a battleaxe. "Look what I got! Booty! Ar-har!"

"I told you you'd be fine, did I not? No, go upstairs and shower. Jane's making tea."

 The rest had crossed the street and joined them just a Keziah screeched, "Tea? Is that it? Just fucking tea? But I'm goddamned starving!" Quickly she looked at Laura. "Sorry, La."

"'S'okay, Kezzy," Laura shrugged. "I'm hungry, too." Her sweatshirt, once lavender, was now splattered with oily black stains. She, too, brandished a trophy from the fight.

"You're naff is what you two are," Spike muttered. "Tea means dinner. Go take your toys upstairs and wash up before I eat the whole lot and you starve."

"No way, Helmet Head," Keziah said and linked arms with Laura. "My girl here can cook better than all the rest of you combined."

"Please, for the sake of my olfactory senses, go," Wesley admonished. "Quickly."

The two ran screaming into the building and up the stairs. Spike waited until they were out of sight before turning to Wesley.

"It is futile to train them to be soldiers against the mighty forces of the apocalypse," Illyria said before he had a chance to speak.

"She's just peeved because they stole some of her thunder," Spike said. "Worked as a team with no coaching from Chuckles over there."

Angel nodded. "Keziah showed none of the nerves from this morning. She went straight to work. Laura knocked the leader away from the orb with a flying sidekick Bruce Lee would have been proud of. Then she wheel kicked him to Keziah who blew the powder into his face."

"The choreography was somethin'," Spike agreed.

"They are contumacious."

Angel shook his head. "They're still children, Illyria. A contentious attitude is part of growing up. And you're just upset that they call you 'Twitch'."

"There was a time that such profanity would have sent them to their deaths." She glared at him. "Chuckles."

"Nah," Spike said. "Only the little one. The other's not a virgin. She has some bloody mind-blowing moves."

 "And how would you know?" Wesley demanded.

Spike winked. "She told me last night while you slept. We compared notes."

Angel clapped Wesley on the shoulder. "Welcome back to the world of the living and the hell of teenagers, Wes. And you're about to give all this glory to the Council."

Wesley looked southward and sighed. "Tomorrow's judgment day."

 

~*~

 

_Somewhere amongst the buttercups and violets, he felt a sudden weight bear heavily on his shoulders. Not willing to spoil the moment in self-analysis, he continued to wander the field, enjoying the scents, colors, life, paths that forked toward other destinies. He had, throughout his first attempt at living, dutifully followed the course laid out before him, ignoring the intriguing crossroads along the way, staying on the straight and narrow until events steered him elsewhere. Then, despite his best plans, he had been seduced by the ever-present forest of childhood fairy tales, where he'd met his death._

_He should have learned his lesson. But he was Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, after all, and his father had always been there to remind him how difficult it was to teach him anything. He turned around when he heard the panting and saw Moroni on his heels, Cordelia by his side._

_"Hey, you," she said. "Cute dog."_

_"Moroni's dead?" Wesley asked, holding his hand out for the dog to come to his side._

_"Not for quite some time," Cordelia answered, smiling brightly. "When you wake up, he'll need to go out, though."_

_"Ah. And may I ask why you're here?"_

_"One last bit of guidance." She picked a bright yellow blossom from the field, twirling it between her fingers then holding it under Wesley's chin. "Kinda hard to tell with the stubble, which always did look good on you, but I think someone loves you."_

_Wesley frowned and brushed the pollen off his chin. "I take it I shan't receive advice from you after this is over?"_

_"You won't need advice," she said. "Have you made your decision about the Watcher?"_

_"Don't you already know the answer to that?"_

_"Do I look like a circus side show?"_

_"Ever so sorry," Wesley said with a chuckle. " I just thought—"_

_"Well, buster, you thought wrong. I do **not** go around messing in people's minds. Well, except," she shrugged casually. "Angel really does look more, um, beefy, doesn't he?"_

_Wesley threw a stick for Moroni to chase, as a blush crept across his face. "You said I'd know when I saw the right person. Can't make that decision until they arrive."_

_"They’ll be here before breakfast." She knelt down to pick a bunch of violets. "You pick lovely spots to dream in, Wes."_

_"Not sure why I'm here."_

_Cordelia frowned, looked as if she was about to say something but changed her mind. "Maybe because it shows us all we'll lose if the wrong side wins the apocalypse."_

_"Do you really think humans can win?"_

_"I hope you do," she said and handed him the flowers. "This dimension needs grey, Wesley. In the grey areas humans thrive, do their best work."_

_"You?" he asked._

_"What?" she asked._

_"You said 'I hope you do.' You're including me in this battle now?"_

_Cordelia smiled softly. "You've always been included. It's always been your choice." She glanced over at Moroni. "Ew. I think you should wake up, like, now."_

 

At 4:30 in the morning, the apartment was lifeless with exception of Moroni and his squirming attempts at attention. Wesley closed the door to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. Rummaging through the packed boxes of dry goods, he finally found his stash of Earl Grey. With the impending arrival of the Council, and the disintegration of his intestinal tract due to Jane's coffee, he'd sworn off her favorite dredge. It was best to return to the basics, to the comfort of long-standing traditions.

After the requisite steeping, he took the mug (reluctantly he admitted that some traditions must be put aside for apocalypses and family reunions) and went outside with Moroni to wait. Next to the truck he found a small branch, which he trimmed and tossed for the dog to fetch. Once Moroni was dutifully amused, Wesley gave the landscape his divided attention. He'd grown fond of the natural beauty of the majestic, snow-capped Wasatch mountains. So different than LA — clearer, crisper, more exhilarating, reminiscent of childhood skiing holidays — the brisk morning air hurt his lungs when he took a deep breath. With a frown, he glanced into his tea then prepared himself to face the day.

"Is there a reason you're standing there, silently sulking?" he asked moments later.

"I do not sulk," Illyria answered.

Wesley smirked. "Of course you don't. Is there something you need?"

Illryia stepped up to his side. "You have resumed your role."

"Temporarily, yes."

"You invest much in these puerile gnats." She cocked her head to see him staring. "I have offended you."

"You've not offended me. Your choice of words brings up … memories."

"Memories. I've yet to comprehend the value in such banalities. Spike and Angel waste many hours in heated debate over events that cannot be altered."

"Don't you have—" he drifted off, unable to finish his question. He glanced again into his tea, wondering how long caffeine affected one's system, because the tightness in his chest had returned along with an underlying nausea.

"You wish to know if I still retain her memories."

Wesley furrowed his brow but didn't respond.

Illyria turned toward the building, where a muted light shone from the picture window. She had heard the hushed discussions from behind closed doors: the children questioning, the older one comforting, followed by sounds that reminded her of her first days on this plane inhabiting this shell.

"I would ask you one thing in reply," she said, returning her attention to him. "Your 'Fred' was vexatious in her temperance. Why is it you fear she will no longer be thus?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Wesley retorted.

"There's no understanding you, mate," he heard Spike say.

Wesley turned around to see Angel and Spike standing behind him. Moroni had wedged himself between them, stick in his mouth, tail wagging, eyes twinkling.

"Some Slayer's companion you are," Wesley mumbled.

Spike snorted. "Kettle meet pot."

"What did Illyria want?" Angel asked.

"To lecture me on my responsibilities as a Watcher. Which I am not."

"You keep telling yourself that, Percy," Spike said.  "Me and the real Watcher here are goin' in for some of that coffee the bombshell found."

"A word of advice," Wesley said, a sly grin crawling across his face. "Jane herself uses the 'heroic death' line."

"Heard it, have you?"

"Let's just say that's how we procured the truck. And I suspect more than some of the supplies."

Spike arched an eyebrow. "Not bad. Not bad at all," he acknowledged then whistled for Moroni to follow him inside.

"This time of day is nice," Angel said after an uncomfortable five-minute silence. "When darkness fades away just enough to allow nature to blossom in the pre-dawn grey." He shrugged a shoulder awkwardly when he caught Wesley looking at him. "Sorry, artist inside just to the left of the demon."

"Cordy said something like that earlier," Wesley explained. "I need to ask a favor, Angel. I'd understand if you feel you can't take it on."

"Keep an eye on the girls?"

Wesley nodded. "Yes, please."

"Is it because you've invested your—"

"I am not a banker and they are neither stocks nor bonds," Wesley snapped.

Angel continued, undeterred. "Or is it that you don't trust the Council to make the right decisions?"

"Despite the fact they are capable of demonstrate an exasperating immaturity at every turn, they are Slayers destined to close a Hellmouth. They need all the support they can garner," Wesley said. He glanced at Angel's unimpressed expression then sighed. "Both, actually."

"We'll do what we can for them," Angel said with a nod toward the street. Three dusty, black LandRovers were driving toward them up North Canyon Road. He arched an eyebrow.

"I'm fine, Angel. And thank you," Wesley said and placed the empty mug on the roof of the truck.

There he waited while the cars cruised to a halt and passengers emerged. From the foremost vehicle his father approached, escorted by a middle-aged man Wesley thought he recognized but wasn't sure. As his father approached, angry determination evident in his stride, Wesley noticed that his gait looked stiffer and he seemed much shorter. The father figure of Wesley's childhood had towered over him, he recalled. The nearer he came, the more worn Roger appeared: his hair was no longer brown peppered with grey but entirely grey, once faint wrinkles were now more firmly etched in his face.

With some annoyance, Wesley watched as Andrew Wells emerged from the second car, walking hurriedly to catch up with the older Watchers. Wesley smirked to himself. The blond hair was shorter, the suit impeccably tailored, and he still carried himself with an exaggerated amount of confidence.

Wesley noticed in his peripheral vision that they had acquired an audience: both Slayers and Jane stood under the awning, watching the events unfurl. He steadied his breathing and tried to calm his still-caffeinated nerves when he spotted Faith sauntering up from the third vehicle. Her hair had been cut to her shoulders; the style softened her face but made her look older. She granted him her trademark, dimpled grin when she caught his eye.

"Those are the Slayers?" Roger Wyndham-Pryce asked briskly.

"Yes, Father," Wesley answered. Angel, Spike and Illyria had joined the women. "Laura's the blonde, she's—"

"The company you choose to keep is still a bitter disappointment. Hopefully it won't take long to rectify any damage you've done to the Slayers."

 "I shouldn't think it would. The girls would like to remain together for their training. Keziah would like to ensure that Ohio—"

"Their desires do not factor into this. Ohio has been declared beyond hope."

Wesley heard Keziah gasp. "There are still humans in Ohio," he said, hearing his own voice catch at the cruel abandonment. "People who could use the protection and experience of the Council—"

"I reiterate. Ohio is of no concern to the Council or its Slayers," Roger said. "It's time for those girls to join their Watchers and learn their duty."

"And who will be their Watchers?" Wesley asked.

"Timmins and I shall take over."

The other man from the front car stepped forward with a curt nod to his colleagues. At that moment Wesley recalled him from his internship at the Council: a zealous atheist with a temper like a cat-o-nine-tails. He would crush Laura within a month. His own father would drive Keziah to carry out her threat; she'd never tolerate the treatment he had withstood.

 "Those detours and covert distractions cost us dearly, boy. You were gravely mistaken in your assessment of your role in this matter," Roger Wyndham-Pryce said in response to the look of dismay on his son's face. "Did you honestly believe these girls would become effective Slayers under **your** tutelage?"

 Wesley's shoulders slumped under the weight of the criticism. He cast a furtive glance at the girls, who stood whispering to each other then turned to grab his mug from the roof of the truck. When, in the reflection of the back window of the truck, he saw the poise he had assumed out of habit, he straightened his spine and threw his shoulders back.

"Damn it, Cordelia!" he hissed heavenward.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_“We need you for two more tasks … the only one who can be trusted with these…Slayers, who need you. … You'll know who their Watcher should be when you see him. You might not want to accept it, but you'll know. Don’t give them to anyone else."_

 

"No."

"I beg your pardon?" Roger asked. "Son," he added as an afterthought.

"I said, no, Father." Wesley looked around at everyone from the Council to his ragtag army of demon slayers.

He returned to stare down the gawking Council representatives. "The Council does not give a toss about those two **children**. To you they're just the front line of a blighted offense. The people you condemn as 'not a concern' took one off the streets, from her life as a pickpocket and prostitute and gave her both a home and hope. The other survived alone and terrified, protected only by the family dog and the specious hope that you were on your way to rescue her." He pointed toward the group under the awning. "These two girls are already superb Slayers. Not only have they managed to stay alive despite apocalyptic deterrents, they have foiled demonic attacks, slain dragons and with the assistance of those around them, whom you despise, myself included, thwarted a portentous Nokhnoi conjuration."

He stepped forward then halted in his tracks, diverting his nervous attention toward the mug he'd replaced on the truck. Snatching it angrily, he continued.

"If you believe that their concerns and desires are not of consequence, then it is you who is gravely mistaken, not I. The remaining population holed south of the Great Lakes is in dire need of assistance. Their assistance. These two are destined to close that Hellmouth, together. Not next year, not when the Council deems it of concern, but now. They do so cognizant of their own humanity. And in appreciation of their desires, which are of the utmost import, you, Father, and your Council have been made redundant.

"They already have a Watcher."

 

_“You’ll find allies when you are most alone and tranquility when things are most chaotic.”_

 

"Keziah, Spike has a valid point. I daresay tackling in any competitive sporting event with the exception of wrestling does not include lasciviously straddling your opponent," Wesley said before he jerked the door open.

"Faith," he said. What seemed like moments passed in silence as the two looked at each other.

Then he realized the room actually was silent. Everything had stopped. Keziah stood next to him, his Murshan knife in one hand, an antique broadsword in the other. Both pointed at Faith's throat.

"Don't even try it, kid," Faith said.

"Oh, for the love of God. Put that damned thing down," Wesley snapped. "What is your fascination with **my** knife? Must I point out that the knife was in **my** luggage? And in **my** room? Does anyone here understand the concept of 'privacy'?"

Keziah blinked and lowered the arm holding the knife. "I'm not going with her," she said quietly.

"No, Kezzy," Wesley answered with a sigh. "You're not.  I've made you a promise and I intend to keep it. However," he opened the door wider, "the addendum about Margaret's pecan pie is wholly contingent upon you and Laura actually packing in order that we might depart this mountainous inferno sometime this century."

Keziah lowered the sword and turned to face him, a deep V over her angry brown eyes. "Huh?"

Wesley leaned his head against the door.

"You want pecan pie, you gotta pack your stuff," Laura screamed from inside the apartment

"Dunno why," Keziah said. "We can always get more on the way."

"You'll go to Hell for stealing," Laura said as the oven door creaked and clanged open.

"She's here. Ain't I in Hell now?"

With one last glare at Faith, Keziah turned allowing the sword's point to clang on the ground. She walked down the hallway, dragging the sword behind her, and disappeared into a back room with a thunderous slam of the door.

"Hey! Treat that weapon with respect!" Angel yelled from a direction Faith was unable to discern.

She stood in the doorway, no longer trying not to grin. "Kinda chaotic, ain't it? You should see the mess in England."

Wesley shook his head. "I assure you, this is a lull. Jane took Illyria, er, I believe she said shopping. Wait until they return. Would you like to enter the foray?"

 Faith crossed the threshold and surveyed what Wesley considered a "foray":  books stacked neatly on the table, rolled maps and parchments nestled among them; packed duffle bags were lined up with weapons wedges between them and boxes of dry goods and canned food; a dog sat on the couch, glaring at her. From the kitchen wafted in the aroma of freshly baked—

"Oh, my God. Brownies!"  Faith screamed as Angel appeared, carrying the sword Keziah had held at her throat. "Satan's spawn! I'd stake Angel for a decent brownie."

"Is that what Wesley paid you?" he asked.

Wesley rolled his eyes and kept sullenly silent.

"Apparently, Laura, the blonde Slayer, cooks and bakes when she's upset," Angel explained. "Today seems to have taken quite a toll on her nerves."

"Pun intended," Spike said, materializing from the kitchen. He held up a cookie. "She made these earlier." He winked. "Bless her beating heart."

"Toll house?" Faith's eyes widened and lit up. "No offense, man, but you British can't bake cookies or brownies worth shit."

"I shall add that to my homeland's many faults," Wesley said. "Is there a reason you've broken with Council and come here?"

Laura stepped out of the kitchen with a plate of cookies and a brownie. Wordlessly, she handed it to Faith then walked down the hallway.

"That was her being rude," Spike explained. He looked around the room and took note of the impasse between Wesley and Faith. "Are we going hunting or what, Chuckles? The Slayer-ettes in there named Angel 'Chuckles'. Fitting, eh?"

Angel slammed his hand into Spike's back, propelling him into the door. "Whatever you say, Helmet Head. Later, Faith?"

"Sure, big guy," she responded just before the door slammed. She bit into the brownie and immediately her eyes rolled back into her head. "Oh my God. This is orgasmic."

Wesley crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. "Faith?"

"Oh, yeah," she said swallowing the last half of the brownie. "Wanted to tell you how much I liked that speech today. 'Bout time you grew balls."

"So kind of you to notice."

"Daddy's cheesed off. Still fuming. Don't ask for your inheritance anytime soon. I guess you figured, huh?"

"Yes, I did. And I hardly think you've come here to state the obvious."

Faith bit into a cookie. "Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"

"Would you rather finish the conversation after you've climaxed?"

"What else does she bake?"

"Faith—"

Faith wiped her mouth then brushed off her hands. "Look, me and Robin're heading on a working holiday to Africa. Catchin' up with Xander, ya know?"

"He's holding his own?" he asked.

"Yeah," Faith answered with a nod. "He's good. So, I was thinking, that'll take me four months."

Wesley cocked his head as both Slayers entered the front room.

"Then I was thinking I'd join you guys in Ohio,' Faith finished as she devoured another cookie. "Damn, these are good."

"Why the fuck do you say that?" Keziah growled.

"I think it's the butter. Margarine isn't as good," Faith answered with a grin. "Because I'm a Slayer. I slay. What's it to you, junior?"

Laura shook her head, but Keziah was the one who spoke. "We don't need you. All we need is us and the Chief—"

"Keziah," Wesley warned.

"Chief?" Faith repeated. "Suits ya, Wes. Explain to your troopers."

"I'd also like to know why Faith," Wesley said. "There's only begrudging love lost between us. Why would you want to abandon the Council, abandon Buffy to help us? To help me?"

Faith shrugged. "Because I can. And to get more cookies?" Scanning the angry faces, she moved to the door. "Look, when I get back, Robin and whoever else wants to come whip the shit out of demons— Wait, you said dragons, too, yeah?"

Wesley and Keziah nodded in unison. Faith grinned at the sight.

"Oh, yeah. Killing dragons. Xan might want in on that. I'll ask. Anyway, so I'll muster up the forces of good and we'll join you. Kicking demon ass in Ohio. Sure beats the Rose Bowl, huh?"

"I take it you'v e made our decision for us?"

Faith nodded. "Yep. Now, I need an address so I can tell people. Wait. Bad idea, ears in walls and I ain't shittin'. Gimme a general idea of your HQ."

"Four months?" Wesley repeated. Faith nodded. "Fine. We'll be behind Doctor's Hospital in Columbus."

"Fuckin' A," Faith said, grinning. "So, I'll see ya then, yeah? You need me before then, tell B, she'll know what's what." She turned to the two girls. "Take care of the Chief, brats, or I'll kick your asses instead."

Wesley stood immobile while Faith left the building. After a few moments, he turned to the girls.

"There better be both cookies and brownies waiting in the kitchen for me or you'll do double training. And take Moroni outside before he fouls the carpet again."

Wesley watched in bemusement as both girls scurried around the room with Moroni anxiously waiting at the door.

"Weapons!"

 

_"Hey you," Cordelia said, flouncing onto his bed. "Moving to Columbus, huh?"_

_"I thought you said I'd not see you again," Wesley remarked, wiping sleep from his eyes._

_"Man, don't you ever listen to me? I said I wouldn't be giving you advice. Big dif, bud."_

_"You set me up."_

_"Actually— Oh, man," she said with a giggle. "Listen to me. I sound like you!" She waited as he narrowed his eyes. "It was all Fred's idea. She knew you'd help the girls but she also knew you wouldn't listen to her."_

_Wesley's brow furrowed and twitched as he processed what Cordelia said. "I would have done anything she asked. Anything in the world."_

_Cordelia put a hand on his arm. "No. You've would have done it **because** she asked. You had to come to your own conclusions on this, do this for yourself."_

_"But you bribed me. Lied to me."_

_"Okay, bribed, a little. But I didn't lie. I just left out timelines and minor details." She took in his Spock-like expression. "Okay, **some** major details, but in the end you figured out you were the best one for the job. Just took you a really long time."_

_"The deal still stands?" he asked._

_"Didn't you hear what Illyria said. Wes? Fred will be waiting for you, whenever, whatever, however long."_

_"Will I see you again?"_

_"It's not like you don't know where I am." She granted him the familiar Cheshire smile before she faded from view._

 

" Chief."

"C'mon, Chief! Let's get a move on! Hell's awaitin' and getting' bigger!"

_The End_


End file.
